I’m not kneeling,
wearing white.
I tread and pray,
stop to say hello;
Remember something terrible; curse
and pray.
In Gap jeans, in bitterness,
before I eat
and after.
I’m speaking to you,
about why this happened,
why that didn’t.
There is no silence.
Candles are not practical.
I’m not in an Alpine monastery,
a Medieval garden; there is no mint
or thyme. No bells, brothers, sisters, silver.
I don’t meditate;
I live in movement
plates, clocks
a web of voices,
faces I don’t love.
