A bird with a tree clutched in its talons
swallows its own song. A package man
with a box stamped Fragile delivers The Better

News to a house in which no one is home. It has
been mishandled. I open myself to the threat
of nothing until the first crick of arthritis

twinges in my knee. Patience, patience. Prayer is
not petition for something but petition to be at ease
with all things. Thy will undone. Thy essentially

essential wisp of vanished smoke I’m thinking now
and I’m thinking that 23rd Street will always
smell like piss as long as this city stands,

that today is another day I will sleep with the world
unconquered, will leave its problems unsolved.
This is a definition of failure. And it’s not a miracle

but a mystery to me that I am able to speak at all.
Melchizedek, please tell me there is some crust
of bread grown stale in the cupboard, some

draught of vintage gone sour in the cellar,
some priestly garment for the layman
with which to make this meantime offering.