Thou Shalt Not Mix Fibers

Indian Summer Prayer, 2008


Dear Lord, you are weightless
in the morning fog, you dropped
your shadow and called it good.

Thank you for your shifting moods,
reaching behind yourself, coaxing

Forgive me—I want to feel your
hand smearing the lamb on my forehead—
for all of the masturbation, intellectual or otherwise;

Please don't confuse my nerves
with vibrato as I fumble through the dresser
drawers where Mom and Dad used to tuck me
in for the night, asleep on a mattress
of polyester and wool.