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