Dear unseen one,

This entry is part 65 of 73 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Winter 2011-12

tell me the hour isn’t late,
that the all-day, all-night

diner still serves what I crave.
The sky’s cloudy, marbled, shot through

with bits of emerald: the color of expensive
granite countertops, or the supple skin

of certain fish. Pebbly in places, like
day-old bread. This might be the hour

for some old-time miracle: say,
fish and loaves; or wine and water.

Birds twisting free from fire. This time,
console me. My losses, reconstitute.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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