It is Sunday and I feel the futility

of prayer in the air and the urge

to pray as if each holds a danger. 

I think of the infant Hercules

strangling the snakes, one in each hand.

How dangerous is that futility and urge.

It is Sunday and the shadow of wings

has passed over my yard in this grey

morning, some breeze stirred that came

through my door, touched my face,

some whispered words out of a whirlwind,

“The bet’s on.”  Hear, “The world makes

promises it breaks and we make them whole.”  

The morning holds a light snow near the Ides of March,

I can only understand, “Et tu. . ?” look at the pieces

to put back together.  It is Sunday, the Sabbath,

a holy day and I have no prayer I trust.

Hootism:  the more i talk to myself the worse my language becomes.  hee, hee, hee