mmmmcdlxxxvii

Prayer

Peace, my God,

Who doesn’t exist,

Put Me in a trance,

Something mildly electric

That connects Us,

Fuses clover to the

Patchwork quilt. Clover

Upon which a quilt

Is billowingly laid,

Upon which We Are.

Picnicking. Not panicking.

Peace. The chicken,

My Chicken,

Which I hold in my hands

And eat with my teeth and lips and tongue

Similar to how you hold yours.

And how you eat so differently.

In the event of a perfect picnic there is

No judgment.

And We’ve eaten,

Stretched out upon the quilt

As unaware of it as We Are of the clover

Smushed beneath Us. A patchwork of

Peace made whole by Us upon it and by

“What fine weather we’re having this afternoon!”

And the Holsteins chewing cud seem to agree.

God help Us

To a picnic every weekend,

And every day glorious

Like this one.

And once we say goodbye

To our escapism

May We re-enter the action

To find that the

Storm has

Subsided.

And there is peace

With and without US.

A Men.