Youngblood

All prayers meant for the ears of God are spattered on the ceiling like bugs on a windshield,
never having gotten through.

So many now they form stalactites and drip their poison where I lay.
Spoiled promises.
Rancid hope.
Curdled dreams.

Wishes.

Stars are pinholes in the window shade, the porch light shining through.
I count them, and look for constellations.

Sometimes I rouse myself to stand on the porch and scan the horizon for angels.
Extraterrestrials.
The ghosts of soldiers and indians.

I listen for your car, your key in the latch, your sandals on the floor, and think I hear the rustle of your skirt, feel you sliding into bed, smell your hair on my pillow.

Finally I fall asleep.