Here are the nights
where we practice for
shallow basket of fruit the shade
of nightingales’ breasts, screens
alive with the quiet rustling
of ferns. The remnants of a meal
lie on the table; so too the dregs
in glasses smudged with fingerprints.
Every morning we brace for the winds
of the unpredictable: some new
wound, some fresh sorrow.
To draw the curtain aside, to wash
the face with cold water: such are
our small prayers for benevolence.
In response to Via Negativa: Conversion.