It is Sunday and I feel the futility
of prayer in the air and the urge
to pray as if each holds a danger.
I think of the infant Hercules
strangling the snakes, one in each hand.
How dangerous is that futility and urge.
It is Sunday and the shadow of wings
has passed over my yard in this grey
morning, some breeze stirred that came
through my door, touched my face,
some whispered words out of a whirlwind,
“The bet’s on.” Hear, “The world makes
promises it breaks and we make them whole.”
The morning holds a light snow near the Ides of March,
I can only understand, “Et tu. . ?” look at the pieces
to put back together. It is Sunday, the Sabbath,
a holy day and I have no prayer I trust.
-Byron Hoot
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