We drop our prayers into the mirrored blue and
watch them ripple out in arcs across the stars,
because here we are never more than inches below gravity,
rattling the constellations like loose change in our pockets.
While underneath the curvature of sky, old Abraham still counts
the stars, numbering his sons and daughters off into the eras.
Rest assured the limits of the world will soon be met, so we ration
our remaining breaths because soon they will be spent on heavy
worded phrases and snatched away by greedier lungs, for in this
veil of woven ink we cling between the breath we gave and the
one we have yet to take.
