within the half breath between And Lord, and please,
there yawned the toothless universe, where vibrations
spiral tonelessly into the sleek
viscous lack, where not even the bulging edge
of the p can snag a corner,
never striking anything,
never returning any sound back
or so it seems.
but beyond forever, the divine street-sweepers
scoop up wave-particles into their quilted bags,
sliding between centuries to deliver pouches
of voice-grit, wafers, and the Our Father
bundled in their spidery arms like crying toddlers,
back to the Precambrian Age,
where all prayers were answered in the first place.
I think we’re all praying heretics. Especially me, this morning.