Healing for the Splendid Imperative
Lord, you are not going — god, lord god,
and god of the future — press your space face
close to mine, and sing me to my opera house.
Bring a bale of hay and a bucket of water to the stage
for the hungry piano. The chorus rings like an empty
endless river and it needs you. The difference
between an egg and an oval — yes? — is life.
God, lord, I was made to be the right hand
in your first house and I have held close
your oldest grasshoppers. I can be the one
to save the spider song from your rafters,
god! Bring forth your witching hour and
this time next summer, we could all
be driving Tesla’s on Mars.