Prayer, and: "They shall be left to fall, as they are inclined by their own weight"

Prayer

What shall I do if I never can reach him?
The bed is a harlot, all laughter and lace.
My teeth like a riot of bridges and gold
so how can he hear me? And what should I say?

The asters and poppies just die in the window,
the rose on its stem is bald where it aches.
The blood fruit rolled from the table then burst,
so how can I kneel, and whom should I face?

The lord must be sleeping. The bones in my tongue
are rib-like and caught, my mouth is amazed-
but how should I sing and what shall I call him?
He hasn't a name. I don't know his grace.

"They shall be left to fall, as they are inclined by their own weight"

- Jonathan Edwards

Think of the tight wedge of the seat, the tray-table
unfolded, the stewardess
          arriving with drinks.

Or of that comfortable space
where wind bends
      around the airplane's wing.

Nothing is as safe as I want it to be.
Sparks from the wing flaps, smoke in the aisle-
such a sudden shake so the facemasks
dropped. A cloud arched past.
           Like the body,

the craft fell of its own weight,
the cities glittering
      as the clouds broke.

I have always hoped that if my body resumed
its terrible weight,
       I would know enough to say:
It is fitting, Lord. It is fitting.

And as my body fell through the sky,
my tie whipping the air behind me:
            this, too, is just.
I confess a certain weight-

but knew the lord would never drop me
              from such a height,
his arms like hulls. But knew - as the airplane

heaved and the clouds rolled by -
a safety. The facemasks swayed
          like vines.

Each wing sheared off
        so, one by one,
the passengers were blown through the holes.

I held the armrests as though nothing
were the matter,
      as though, for all my thirty years,
I have been weightless.