The Vicar's Complaint

I don't know what I believe but I know the feeling when the light hits the kitchen table

Blessed are those who aren't sure. Blessed are those who came to church for the singing, stayed for the quiet,

Praise the cracking open of the seed, the blind ambition of the buried root, the robin's first bewildered, breathless creed

There's a word for the way your coffee cup still sits on the second shelf where no one else would put it—

I woke before you and did nothing about it. The radiator ticked. Your shoulder rose and fell.

My hands still set the table for two. Not every night—just Thursdays, when my hands forget