(1) In Place of Stone
Be it Thy light,
Lord, I falter in
when day, the long fright,
safely’s been.
When the leaves’ long fall
that I was here to see
is over, may they all
gather over me,
in Thy light shown
single as sun,
their many and mine done
over in one,
needer and known ungone,
together in dawn.
(2) After This Manner
‘So be it’ – my only real prayer,
soundless and shapeless as what anguishes,
spoken only when the empty air
is all that’s left of all the languages –
not ‘Thy will be done’ but ‘will be done’ –
spoken not to man, woman, child,
only the many that’s the only one,
only fire, pyre on pyre piled.
Little in form as what consumes my form,
weak in words as I am weak in all,
nevertheless it raises one warm
breath to help a heaven not to fall –
mine or thine, or in whose ever hearing
there comes, even in smoke, this little clearing.
--Lloyd Haft (from Where Is the Body That Will Hold?, 1998)
