“I am thinking of your own sacred garden. I am thinking of
your robins that rock on the telephone wires like men at prayer.
The air is here mottled with all these dreams. Above me
the swifts write a random history of the soul. Against them,
I put these words for you, a kind of prayer themselves,
a way to redeem the silences these bones announce, something
about the way we live our loves, forever on the verge of believing.”
Richard Jackson, closing lines to “Prayer,” from Blackbird (Vol. 11, No. 2, Fall 2012)