Serenity cannot be called forth at any hour:
there are distractions beyond a saint’s pail
and many prayers do not appear
in the tattered canon.  Some are comical,

others hidden in the far off bark of wild dogs
or the domestic howl of delberate weaning;
men, suited in their current vestments, actors
at the temple’s door and wailers for the losing

they have caused.  An expectant odor of women
drifts down from the nearby tower, its lawn
strewn with the upset trikes of children.

At dawn this place becomes a silent practice;
any kind will do, even the fakery of Noah’s ark.
The days go by and I go with them.