Working On (When the Oil Is Gone)

Let there be light
to read by, to sing by, to flicker
at our sides, to illuminate all the shapes
our faces make after the sun goes
down. Let there be sound,

but not as much as before.
May we hear the rooster's throaty crow
in the city and wake--may it peel
back the scales from our eyes
and leave us with only our electricity.

Let the air clear and the cancer fade.

May our sweat be holy, oh Lord,
when the oil is gone.
If Eden is our memory, will it remember us?

With heaven as the soil we stand on,
the tilled, damp earth, ready
to dirty our hands while we plant the seed
of this family and that to split with our family
and yours--the abundance for which heaven
has no other name.

May what runs out only make room.
Let us stink well with all the earth.