Think of the Sabbath as made, but not finished, that portion of time given us to shape as we wish.

I know what you’re thinking / that I flew here from heaven, / flitting my way through the galaxies, / wings aglow against dark matter.

The preacher enters the pulpit. / The waiting watchful befriend her like a cloak. / In the round silence of those before her / she breathes — in, out, in.

Let us be true, truly be, / let us be. That was the refrain / I sang under the moon I lost / some months ago.