During Morning Prayers

light casts through white lace curtains;
my fingertips probe their coarseness,
trying to find the secret of their design-
the secret which haunts my walls.

my eyes map the blue highways on my wrists
and the grey streets beyond the glass.
they are all roads which lead to one place:
a cavern holding nothing.
An abyss full of our loss.

these fingers have traced the texture of our memory;
have held the paper-thin wafer of your body,
touched the cool chalice of your blood,
smudged your Bible pages of perfection.

i pray until the son goes down.
that's when the morning truly comes.