No Rain Sunday

There is no rain this Sunday morning,
but like Carver I would live my life
over again and make the same unforgivable mistakes,
given even less than half a chance.

I feel somewhat lost this morning, as thought my
destiny may have been missed in some sleepy church house
my mind would never think of entering,
and my soul would never dream need of.

The only song in my heart is the low moaning wail of discontent,
that ragged little interior jingle that sings of desolation
and a place passed by that I failed to discover,
missed whizzing past in my rearview mirror.

No campfires of hope burning on the closed range of this heart,
only an ocean of saw grass blowing in a wind whose direction
I can't plot across landscape I can't define in a world
too mad for my solitary eyes to record.

I have no vision this Sunday in dry America,
only the dull ache of things done too soon,
a song near coda before the last true note flies
from the bell of a horn of less than plenty,

the dark hole of forever rising like sudden fearsome anger.

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