Prayer Of The Hours (The River's Song)

If I were a nature poet,
I would write this river a song.
But I am a poet of dreams
I can merely say to it: dear river, flow on.

We recited the prayer of the hours while Paris slept,
and the brothers on the mountain ate.
While the sun splayed gold on this still country.

We kept the hours with benevolent souls,
though some eyes in the circle were darker than crows.
But they knew it was not the hour for their savagery.

And darling it was like magic,
bittersweet faith. That toss and catch
rhythm beating while the boy on the porch, wept.

But the river never ceased it's flow.

For those begotten notes struck passions
rivers can easily forgo, they answer to a different power.

And so they disregard the passing hours.

HE

while my sister dreamed of an ever after,
this night sky brimmed with his laughter and
there he sat. eating hopes that had been sent up
while with my hands i prayed that my whole life
i would survive. thrive.

but who knew, who knew that there is nothing
we can do- you may be alive but you may not thrive
if you do not believe in you- who knew.
time for more prayers. i picked mine up,
she dropped hers off (we call it the jesus shuffle)
nothing was answered; our voices were muffled while
we boarded that train heading back from no where.

that fat boy in my car drummed his thumbs
his eyes full of his mama's cake- another man
in the next car decided that he was tried of being
awake- the train pulled on and out of the dust and
through the rusty tunnel that once made a bridge
between you and i-

see everything comes back, to that
damned laughter up in the sky.

how i used to smile like everything was fine,
until he spread out those diamonds on his rye.
set his eye on me, stuck a fork into my heart,
and began his feed.