Believing comes
in first-day covers,
sincere blue kisses
after the first row;
dazed like a bird that soars
headlong into a closed window.
Ink-traced hands are prayers
that end with laced pinkie fingers,
promises that know no distance.
You wonder where I keep the bread.
They settle new and hungry,
wordless with the milky awe
of pictures in a childhood bible
in olden days; when wishing still helped.
