Somewhere between our soil and his sun,
between the puddles we drive through
and the oceans he tunes, somewhere

between flickering streetlights and stars,
caves and galaxies, the music of the spheres
and the half notes we play

we think we caught him, calling him away
from the immanence that surrounds him to heed
our cries and sew back the fabric of our lives,

like some button on reason’s foolscap.
We believe the fervor of our voices will gain
the favor he should crown us with,

as if he were the deaf man of the Bible
dependent on us to fetch Ephphata mud
to unseal his ear and give us what we want.

Better to have baling wire wrapped tight
around our tongues to fence in our arrogance.
The best said prayers are those unspoken,

the most moving, the most unflourished
and most selfless, unscripted, except for
our Amens.