rusticating oneself

prayer is no longer the waiting room it used to be. it is like something primal.
it is like the pacing of breaths.
like footfalls converting.
it is like how life is sometimes the little deaths in ourselves now and then.
it is like a warm friday. like facing east. it is like ice cubes marinating in a jug of sweet tea on the toolbox, head tilted thoughtfully under the hood of some Oldsmobile classic listening to the cylinders fire and the sound of something being born again in this life.