In the night hush


    Knees drop again, in the vulnerable night


    when the others have left for that show


    and the apartment leans into the shadows


    like butter melting into bread. It’s me again.


    Did you miss me?


    I’m sure you have the plea memorized by now.


    I deliver it every day like flowers to a grave,


    hoping against hope that they’ll bloom this time,


    take root and break through the stone and ceremony,


    take back the land with hope instead of dying things.


    Do you hear me? Do I even believe me anymore?


    How many prayers does it take to find him?


    If my heart falters, bows its head,


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    goes to wipe at phantom tears,


    will the prayer fall through like rain breaking


    through clouds? If it hurts, will it stop?


    Knees drop again.


    It’s me, God.


    It’s me.


    Celestial navigation


    Dead reckoning—I’m pushing aside stars


    and systems looking for you. Reading the constellations


    like maps—the Big Bear sips


    from the Dipper’s warm cup,


    cowering in the face of Orion’s milky club.


    You have to be up there,


    because down here is too hard to bear.


    Celestial navigation should point me to the stars.


    I’ve been looking for signs so long


    that the light they spotted grows fuzzy—


    how hard is it to look the stars straight on,


    face to face,


    gleam to glimmer?


    So intent on the charts


    you miss the journey.


    Blind me if you have to,


    I’m not coming down without the north star.