Sometimes it's too hard with words or dark or silence.

Tonight I want a prayer of high-rouged cheekbones

and light: a litany of back-lit figures,

lithe and slim, draped in fabrics soft and wrinkleless and pale

as onion slivers. Figures that won't stumble or cough:

sleek kid-glove Astaires who'll lift

ladies with glamorous sweeps in their hair—

They'll bubble and glitter like champagne.

They'll whisper and lean and waltz and wink eff ortlessly

as figurines twirling in music boxes, as skaters in their dreams.

And the prayer will not be crowded.

You'll hear each click of staccato heel

echo through the glossy ballrooms—too few shimmering skirts;

the prayer will seem to ache

for more. But the prayer will not ache.

When we enter, its chandeliers and skies

will blush with pleasure. Inside

we will be weightless, and the goodness will not matter

in a prayer so light, so empty it will float.