The Supplicant

I try, when I awake, on a bright Sunday morning
Slowly, slowly, to open both my eyes
Just enough to see the clock, then sink down under
The clear waves of rectitude, a private exercise.

There time doesn’t matter and nobody calls me,
I lie back and float on a summoning bell
That tells the other people—not me, but other people—
To gather up their pitchers and come to the well.

I sail into grace, half awake, half asleep,
Like an angel from a cloud, or a turtle from the sea,
And protect myself from evil, temptation and the devil
By offering up a morning’s rest to hard-worked men like me.