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 devotion alone
constitutes sequence,
as if anything regarding
inward reflection's
procedure were volitional,
as if allowing
could explain what we find
ourselves doing,
as if we were the ones letting
the days go by.
