why i keep asking

i ask the same question to the ceilingmost nights,and the ceiling, being a ceiling, says nothing,and i take the nothingas a kind of answer,the way you take the sea not arguingas a kind of blessing.

i don't need to know why i'm here.i've stopped needing that.i just want to be here well —to be the kind of alivethat would be missed by a plant,a street, a specific dog,one or two of the peoplewho let me sit at their tableand did not ask me to explain.

that's the whole prayer now.let me be missed by small things.let me have been, while i was here,here.