how I know God listens

these days we fall asleep whispering
thank you, thank you, thank you.
and I think that alone sums up perfectly
this equitable arrangement of now:

squeezing palms, Sunday mass,
my putty heart, pliable, yours.
run your thumb over the back
of my hand while the pastor
rouses a homily about love.

thank you, thank you, thank you.

these days the poetry writes itself.

all we have to do is whisper it
over and over, a perfect litany,
thank you.

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