Sabbath has become strange to me.
I rest in corners, clutch at shadows
write poetry on the floor of
library avenues.
Feeling as if I set a table for rest
it would be unwilling come, or
it wouldn't be fresh.
So I gather up scattered
flowers of sleep
into a fragrant bouquet born,
alas, from uneven peace
send up a prayer, set down to hope
til Sabbath return
upon my broken busy world.