First Prayer

Night, my crawling onto the half-roof
(above the porch, not the roof roof, not the top of much, but)
shining at the stars and the half-moon
and taking a cigarette, avoiding the wet pools
that - if I forgot, my socked
feet would sneak to -

my thanking the wet leaves for drooping so.

Night, the feeling of words rushing to your mouth
with no one to catch them but an idea
named God, the feeling of letters
that crash upon finding your lips closed -
fall to grains, and melt down your esophagus
to your stomach -

where they were conceived.