Withdrawing to the anteroom, I lay
disconsolate before its gilded shrine,
and bowed my head in folded arms to pray.
I importuned God for redemptive signs
confirming that he heard my plea for grace.
But learned-by-rote invocatory lines,
which I’d been taught from childhood to embrace,
seemed futile next to closed Venetian blinds.
With sun-conversant eyes, I pulled them up
and slung my parched petition at the sky.
There, torch-lit congregations hung my cup
of grief which scaled the heavens for reply.
Night’s shroud then flared,
as though my prayers were heard
by pulsing stars that never said a word.

Frank De Canio

Born & bred in New Jersey, I work in New York. I love music from Bach to Dory Previn, Amy Beach to Amy Winehouse, World Music, Latin, opera. Shakespeare is my consolation, writing my hobby. I like Dylan Thomas, Keats, Wallace Stevens, Frost , Ginsburg, and Sylvia Plath as poets.

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