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.
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.
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.