Winter 1989 • Vol. XI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1989 |

On the Resemblance of Poetry to Prayer

In that it is addressed to no one,   Nor to the self, but     To the troubled body Of the world, from which it arises   Also, a morning mist where light     Scatters toward coalescence. Moved at the mercy   Of its humors, as the world     By its elements, My body, troubled, seeks   To know the prime of movement,     Even in this sanguine dew Reddening the dry earth of midsummer   Which steams, a pulse     Of breath. Dwelling in general Alteration, like the air thickening   Toward thunder, the melancholic     Rage of heat lightning, A storm stalled, shifting somewhere   Beyond the horizon, my body     Cries out, hears like rain From risen vapor a multitude   Of voices, windswept toward whatever     Cessation is solace, is rest.

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