When at last I can let the waves,
so tired from their pilgrimage,

nuzzle the toes of my boots
while I think up another

lie about God
to toss across Lake Dunmore,

I find my peace knowing
a gustful of starlings will carry it back

a little at a time,
at their leisure,

in marigold-yellow beaks,
letting the shreds of the words

that once made it into the old,
harsh prayers

be their new and adequate
nest parts.