Wednesday, May 31, 2006

To God

You are across my morning.
And so I tell you of the missing men,
out there chasing you in all of the wrong things.
I swear I do not judge, but instead
I sit here suspended
Trying not to hope for their best interests
no one
making plans to see New York again
maybe not Ireland's greens
or his arms
but the strange silence of outerspace
driving under water
to meet Manhattan.

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