Thursday, August 8, 2019

PERFECT MIRACLE

We aren't true
believers, but still in our
hands, the calendar
is transformed into

a rosary; one at a time,
we allow its worn beads
to slip through our warm and
penitent fingers,

intently repeating
the same sentences
in the same orders—
entreating the universe

conjuring, from breath and air
pressure alone, the one and only
truly perfect miracle:
the stamina

with which to sustain
the illusion,
a frail human notion
that sequence alone

constitutes movement,
as if anything about
daily inward reflection's
procedure were volitional,

as if the verb
we even deserve
to have used here
were allowing

as if
we were the ones
letting
days go by.


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