You run with what you carry in your hand.
The One who is your heart calls up fresh tears.
You say the prayer of a workingman.
Orange and violet rise at dawn like sand
on Ararat. Exhaustion outstrips fear.
You run with what you carry in your hand.
This has too many causes to count, or one.
Wanting the self to die no longer seems queer.
You offer up the cry of a wounded man
trailing half a life. He seems to plan
to take the part that’s left. Will He speak clear?
You scrabble at the remnant in your hand.
Maintaining failed you; throwing away remains.
You’ve learned that what to say when God is near
is that you were running but no longer can.
Now here it is: the gyral nightdark yawns,
and no idea how to move from here.
You run with what you carry in your hand
and pray the prayer of a workingman.