Prayer Yen

Only
when the wind rattles the tree
do seeds fall
hair tumbles, shoulders;
leaves, the road--
roll, catch, and they break like
glass underfoot.  It is fall.  I say to myself
that it is okay to wait
for what to do with the rest of today
indoors, watch bread in the oven womb
swelling and sunflower seeds pop
from the crust
I only wanted to see
if I could do it,
face it.

The streets are fairly tales only when
roving their nipping air; I
see their too many breaths
sticking against the windows that I
peer into--
their afternoons and the hot water
for tea or coffee with
animal frequency, shriveled
orange peels curling
into themselves like
frightened worms and
"the cake has been served
and did you like it?"
Trying to fit in but the key
in the door always in the door a
sore tooth turning and turning and
from in there the rain runs itself
sideways into the mouth of an
earth one would never see.
The leaves might as well be licked
down for good.

In Navajo mythology,
rain is the sun's sperm.
These days, there's no dance
for birth, regeneration, death,
until there's true fear under our feet--
the snake in the dream bites
two eagles making love in free fall
don't make it
maybe
our wind couldn't
catch them.

They used to look at the sky
and see Gods.

What do we see?