I pray
in the curtained tub
for a drip
from the showers of blessings,
for no more than a mere
mercy drop
falling.
I sense,
at best,
a listening
from somewhere
else.
At worst,
I hear myself,
talking alone
in a dark place,
hoping for a glimmer
from some far corner
of the universe.
That would be well enough.
Even if all the light I see
is some sudden reflection,
a spark off the teeth
of that menace,
clutching its scythe,
coming,
inexorably ,
to harvest
me.
Poems by Ken 