Already, the sky today 

is made of someone else’s history     and falling behind.


And the traffic is terrible.


I have a dream of simply being

somewhere else. 


This might hurt a little,

life says. 


Did you hear the one about the prayer that fell in love

with a church ceiling?


I just want

to be home. Snow is kinder out my kitchen window.


It leans so close I can believe that it is whispering.

It brushes the glass    and says


baby, baby.