The air here is 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, from “Prayer,” Out of Place (The Ashland Poetry Press, 2014)