In the North

I pray
for a river
in which to
go down
and pray.

Where God
bubbles their voice
from the brook,
in a cadence
I can know

and sway to,
back and forth.
I weep
that I can't hear it.
And struggle

to lay motionless
in my weeping,
my wife softly
asleep beside me.
What wisdom this is!

(Or is it pain?)
I don't know.
Jarrell could tell
the difference.
I can only sing

like a siren
Her quiet breathing,
my only anchor
in the dark.