He would spend many itchy nights
backing away from staticky televisions,
rejecting bowers of gray,
wishing he wouldn’t feel numb forever,
squinting from staged lights,
when night skies looked like planetariums.
When he could decide to go to the right restaurant,
he would quietly corner an old wooden piano,
waiting for a single dusty thought
in its own language
deep in its head.
He would spend many foliage filled afternoons
putting his face too close to computer monitors,
and then escaping to the outdoors
to recite prayers in his head,
meaning it for once.
He stood there anointed
spending many April hours
solemnly holding hands
before the seventh fig tree,
musky oil dripping down behind his ears,