They clean the prayers out twice a year
and bury them in bags upon
the Mount of Olives, where the tombs
maintain their silent lexicon
and then in cracks and crevices
the living cram another batch
counting on God to have the time
their wishes with his will to match.
These deadpan stones are what remains
of the home-from-home once offered him
and maybe they’re still dawn-patrolled
by cherubim and seraphim
but for me, the message from the past
is however endlessly we yearn
doesn’t even mean our hearts are read
by here/now lovers – we soon learn
the wall between us is as stern.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be
pleased to hear them.