You find it hard to believe
in any kind of God: Priests,
little boys, countless kept secrets;
Israelis, Palestinians, that dirty war
over somebody's idea of holy land;
Your girlfriend's autistic son,
and how she stopped loving you
suddenly; the sharp, numbing
loneliness. Yet, every morning
You reach across the mattress
quiet that bleating alarm,
sit up, still half asleep,
ready to do whatever
the hell it is you now do.