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.
Where?
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.
11/22/2016
West Vancouver
after “Alexander All Alone” by Andy Shauf