Dear God, the Day is Grey
Dear God, the day is grey. My house
is not in order. Lord, the dust
sifts through my rooms and with my fear
I sweep mortality, outwear
my brooms, but not this leaning floor
which lasts and groans, I, walking here,
still loathe the Labors I would love
and hate the self I cannot move.
And God, I know the unshined boards,
the flaking ceiling, various stains
that mottle these distempered goods,
the greasy cloths, the jagged tins,
the dog that paws the garbage cans.
I know what laborings, love, and pains,
my blood would will, yet will not give:
The knot of hair that clogs the drains
clots in my throat. My dyings thrive.
The refuse, Lord, that I put out
burns in vast pits incessantly.
All piecemeal deaths, trash, undevout
and sullen sacrifice, to thee.
