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.

Fried chicken.

And how you eat so differently.

In the event of a perfect picnic there is

No judgment.

And We’ve eaten,

Stretched out upon this 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.