The call to count
those lucky stars, the shoeless
witness of them without
any feet, fall more frequent
than any adhan,
the adaptive optimism
any species wields against
the other, Hamlet heeled
nobility of the bullet
stirred brain, or such kindred
strains of plodding thought.
The bird in the hand of being school,
the wager of something
instead of nothing there
with its mouthful of
sticky sweet platitudes,
leaving unfettered blessings
there for the devils
you deal, the story you keep
stirring up, the holy
you ghost so hard. Calling
all your sly confederates to
save your stowaway soul,
leaving this ritual,
a man standing in the rain
reaching for the moon.
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