Do you think I don’t know that when I say Lord
I might be singing into the silo where nothing is stored,
where it is written low lights were confused
by skyward light and flew its bodies
as birds against walls?
Well, everyone thrashes
against a wall
in this life.
I don’t know what I mean,
but I mean it. I don’t know what to want,
but I want it. And when I say God
it’s because no one can know it—not ever,
not at all—. It’s a wall.
And it drops to the floor as I fall.