Restless in sleep, my feet
bound, I pray. I pray
for orphans, I pray for rain
in the garden of the knowledge
of good and evil, I pray
for a sign, my veins tied in knots
around my wrists.
My bed rattles like a cable car bound
for a cliff, open surroundings,
my demise on display.
I am observed by starlight:
it cases me like a bank, robs me
of my emptiness. I pray
for a piecemeal death, militant
in its increments.
I am Orpheus, partway descended.
I am liar. I am fast
asleep, duress less hefted
than hoisted, Damoclesian
in its portent. The bull saddled
in the Marlboro moon rides
across the sky, blowing its bugle dryly
as a textbook. I wonder why I prayed
when the rain starts down
like a tarp, like a sheet, like a
comfort, like a mother’s
knitted shawl, knotted about the neck.