Atheist’s prayer {for the poet’s hands}

Atheist's Prayer (for the poet's hands)

My outré friend and lover came creaking up the stairs yesterday.

Her steps that knew the earth were as somber as a russian novel

And in her hand was a blue notebook full of the last poems you wrote.

She handed me the notebook as if giving up the most precious thing.

Once inside my room we put on a Beethoven symphony.

As the third marched us away from time we dug under your verses

For menace or reason, maybe enlightenment, though we found none.

Eventually it occurred to us to try our hand at prayer,

But all we could whisper in the dimming light were lines you wrote.

It's hard to believe your unusual hands are motionless now.

Every day I'll say an atheist's prayer for the poet's hands.

The next morning before the sun could persecute her, my lover left.

Along with my freedom she left behind your funereal poems.

It was 'round then that i heard rumors of your much-wanted suicide

And it saddened me how you gave in to the farcical cliché

Of the poet and his solitude being too sensitive for the world.

Though i always believed your mythical heart encompassed us all.

You came and went, a lazy gypsy with a purposeless aim,

Yet no less a decadent poet with a well-furnished head.

Of course you didn't walk around like you possessed the deeds to this place,

Neither did you bow and cower in this most plagued of centuries.

You were simply yourself existing in the framework of your time.

Everyday I'll say an atheist's prayer for the poet's hands.