I think I can picture
those bees down there, drowsy
with cold, hovering in those costly
sunny patches still remaining;
and across the street, there's
the chilly flutter
of the yellowing trees
and the drably colored
menial birds, arrowing back
and forth underneath,
suspicious of stasis,
manic for breadcrumbs.
High in a windowed tower,
in which no one living
still believes in Jesus,
a short sort of prayer
just barely finishes
coming together—far less
believable, and more oblique
in its way of asking
than either of us really
deserves or cares for. There's a sense
of relief just after
distant church bells
finish tolling noon—this time
of year, at least
for me, it's only just
now a new morning.
