For Those Weary of Prayer

Surely you know that time of night
when fireflies, tired of their own pulse,
float right into the mouth of a net,
when cicadas begin to sense they are
nothing more than husks for the chorus
that fills them. Surely you have seen
a child slough his trunks and run naked
through a sprinkler, crying out with joy
as you call him to bed. Aren’t you always

calling the name of what you love most

back to you, over and over, pleading, Please don’t

make me ask again, and asking again

until he comes?

By James Crews

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