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Sunday, March 8, 1998
08 Mar 98
By Paul Ford
Prayer
Depite strata of dust upon my Bible,
Each layer marking more time spent away,
Were you to run into me, in a store,
On the street, at some occasion,
I would not ignore your handshake.
Through the tree rings of fat and fear,
That gird my faith and faults,
Past all seven deadlies, on a checklist,
Checked off every day,
You voice is blurred like shortwave radio. Please:
Present me with a giant cosmic Q-tip.
And stick it in my ear.
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