Prayer for

"Rafter of Satin and Roof of Stone-"
                     Emily Dickinson



the days, falling upon each other.

Weighted yet weightless.

You dream of a stage on fire, explosions
just outside the range of vision;
birthday candles that keep re-lighting. 

The future should be on everyone's lips.

Imagine its voice speaking 
from under the bridge, through 
the arms of trees, from milk
cartons tossed into the trash.

If someone keeps stopping
to ask for applause, there will always
be less time for actual speaking.

How fast can you sign a thing
back into actual being?

By actual I mean not mirage.

I mean spring coming back
with more than just softness.

I mean every thing starved 
or thrown overboard or left 
for dead getting up.

Even limping is better 
than complete stupefaction.

At that time I am more
than willing to put my hands 
together, and clap.