On what prayer and art see:

I’m tired, feel forged

But authentic

I’m sick but feel strangely well

I look out, and see the devastations-

The constellations of linguistic entropy and enmity…

While all is actually gathering into itself in Love.

But they, see them all simultaneously

Amended, made well, whole. Strange

To see things whole when they are

So clearly fragmented now. Prayer is

My best guess or wrist watch to wear. Or, real art,

for that matter

For all that follows.

For prayer and art see things more

For what they are

Despite the times.

And they both speak, accordingly.