Prayer

Pat Schneider

Mystery for whom I have no name

because all names collide, divide,

diminish,

help me.

I go down on my metaphoric knees

as I push and pull my pen

along these dim blue lines.

I feel the dust of the earth in my mouth.

I am a beggar with a tin cup.

There is a place beyond a poem—

beyond naming, beyond claiming

any righteousness or craft,

where I have nothing left

but one word: Please.