ON BEING TOLD: YOU MUST LEARN TO PRAY

9 2 Y O N B E I N G T O L D : Y O U M U S T L E A R N T O P R A Y J O H N S I B L E Y W I L L I A M S For the occasional carcass dragged skyward by crows. All those little mouths hungering inside our mouths. The silence we resist in ourselves as much as for the silence we honor in others. Paper lanterns freed upon a calm paper lake. Not for the lake, really, but the way the candles balance there, for a while. For a nearly empty handful of grandfather’s thinning hair. The wars he retreats to at night while starlessly coughing into a pillow. For all ruined monoliths. Enduring mountains gone to ruin by the earth, settling. Watching my hands unmake what they have taken decades to try to make beautiful. Only beautiful; not holy. Not sky, really; just a little closer. ...