Prayer

On a cold morning

I saw a stone wall

And the young man

Who knelt beside it

Without movement.


The pigeons on the street

Rooftops

The sky

And one

Like a prayer

In the open palms

Of the young man.



His eyes were full

His mouth was moving

To make little words

For the idol 
In his hands.

To touch beauty

So alive

And to feel it!


Like a Jesus of dirty pigeons


In his own idyllic moment
Utopia on the roadside

When he and the bird were kings.

And the world

(Oh, if only we could see it!)

Would kneel

And weep

As feathers

Flakes of gold

Fell to the ground.

Even the wind would be gentle

With these perfect gifts

From these saints who shit on statues.



I pass by

Knowing that 

He

Is the closest any man

Has come

To touching God.