How many coffee cups without a reformation,

how many teas I’ve drained and was the same.


Where is the line?

Where is the line?


How many prayers alone in my underwear,

a stark disobedience captive in the dark of a room.




I am tired, my Lord,

not of knowing the line,

where is the call to grasp to sing,

to ring Thy magnificence out,

as do clouds, out of towels

like flocculent sponges.


O terrible poem!

beseech me otherwise.


The doorstep’s where I die, my love;

become a ghost; survive.


West Vancouver

after “Alexander All Alone” by Andy Shauf

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Endless Writer © Ata Zargarof 2020


BC, Canada