It’s become difficult to relate
even to the Psalms.
The ornate, musical spillings
of a man so helpless,
yet so faithful,
no longer bring me
the comfort I once found
examining those cries,
pregnant with grief.

My hymn is growing quiet
like distant light,
Faint and fleeting;
fingers slipped off
an edge. Encompassed
by love and song
so opulent, I worry
I’ll never interpret it.



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