Rote prayers like coins imagined fumble
toward the slot in our both dumb and blind
vending machine theology.
We pray them round; mumble mumble.
What size had You in mind?
What denomination makes doxology

enough that You might grant our wish?
I wish I knew
maker of all precious metals
multiplier of the loaves and fish
and lifter of each morning’s dew
who made the jewelweed soothe the nettles’

acid sting.
Despite our primal rift
will You grant us anything
beyond this day itself as gift?
I wish I knew.
But there: It lifts, another morning dew.