Wake up late. Give your head
a shake til your sight is straight.
Down water. Stand in a circle
of yard tools under the sun
in Florida. Drip. Fast. Wear
leatherless sneakers, hand-me-down
quick-dry hiking pants, a T-shirt.
Wander around the yard. Climb
the vines. Saw through the sun.
Drip. Drag the dregs. Fast. Go
for a run. Take a cold shower.
Put on cargoes, no belt. Find
an old T-shirt. Rip out the tags.
Do other things you hate. Down
water. It’s getting late. Break
the fast with instant coffee.
Read a book about murder.
Watch the Soap Opera Chanel.
Forget the Temple. Remember
the Temple. Question the Temple.
Build the Temple. Temper
your Temple. Tumble down
your tender walls. Tell the story
to an empty room. Want someone
more than this. Want someone more
to grip. It’s hard to want what God knows.
It’s hard to say what God hears.
Repeat to yourself: It’s real, it’s real.
It’s God to feel what you feel.