“Grant me shelter & bread.

Grant me porch ledge, mantel.

Scented candles, bed. Grant me

four walls, a 5-foot fridge & a hall.

& maybe four more walls. Yes.

Four more walls. & a desk. &

a decent laptop, plus pleather

rolling chair. So that I might sit

& write you a poem, Lord.

A psalm praising all you’ve given:

Air I sing with. Cricket’s falsetto.

Buzzing bees & nectar—

how chrysanthemum feels

on the tongue

is what you are to me.

You see what I am doing here.

You see, I am being so sincere,

Sire. Which is sad. Still, grant me

a few free hours each day. Grant me

a Moleskine pad & a ballpoint pen

with some mass. Grant me your gift

of this voice. Pages & pages

of this voice, in a good book

from a loving press. & grant me

a great love, too. Grant a way

to provide for my love. Like,

a tenure-track job

at a small college in the Midwest.

The kind with poems

& papers to read. With hoodies

running in & out of my office.

Deadline, paychecks, &

an OK 401(k). Grant me

everything, Lord. Not today.

But before 28. Be Bulldozer.

Genie. Let every prayer avalanche

me into dust, blank matter. Debris.

Make me worthy. O Lord, make me me.”