What is this sudden reaching?
In bone-white landscape,
my gloved fingers radiate
a signal pain, crying out in warning,
that even the boughs of the mighty
oaks can crack in the death-chill,
and call down its wild thunder
& cleft the roof, clattering our skulls,
trying to wake us. Precarious
prating about the nothing. Is prayer
a kind of blind reaching—
toward a book on a shelf, an unlit room
where a child is sleeping—
beyond the circumference of self?