Praying for me, the people up the road
In urgent supplication
Want God to know
That I am worthy.
Misguided, yes.
But needful
Of intervention, care, compassion.
I slink shame-faced
To shelter in ti-tree:
Such sad confusion
Not knowing where to look
Or what to say
Except some flushed inanity.
Praying for me, the people up the road
Expose me.
I am the wounded gull
With drooping wing.
The Nautilus lost squirming from its shell,
Bewildered city bride
Who cannot know
Proper country ways, safe certainties:
The parsimonious use
Of water and fairmindedness,
Both in short supply
This autumn
Of my crucifixion.
Praying for me, the people up the road
Find grace
And I am burdened, Judas-like,
Wanting to be saved,
Made whole in some way,
Gathered in.
I know it cannot happen.