Meditation

As the alcoholic slovenly sings, inspired
By the dead love of his chemical muse.
As the stillborn stars stare with brightness,
Puncturing the velvet darkness of the night.
As the insomniac twists and turns
In his breaking bed, thinking, thinking.

As all these things transpire,
I sit thinking of God,
And he thinks of me,
And I sneeze away my worries,
And everything lovely comes alive:
That is, everything.