My anguish smokes white when afternoons prompt

when fixed eyes ask:

why does he warrant his gospel?

He is not the first to flip over the baked night

nor can his dance inherit the visible –

I hesitate –

for heaven’s sake, stars, stop peering:

do planets hunt mortals? Whatever,

inside the havoc I’ll hazard my shade,

against the undergrowth fudging my prayers

I’m earning disturbances across renewed light

and tasting Heaven, that tried flour –

just trying.

— Gabriella Garofalo