God hears our prayers when they rise
into the sky like bubbles from our lips,
but he is not above reaching down to take
them from the deep caverns of our pockets,
where they jangle about like collected coins.
I sometimes feel I am a pilgrim
on the wrong boat, sailing westward
to find the edge of grace, that darkness
in the place where the sun finally vanishes,
only to be pulled back by the spinning earth.
I’m not sure what to do with a spirit
that somehow beats me to the empty
places I chose to hide, that insists
on projecting a voice from the flames
in the house I intentionally set ablaze.