/ prayer /

raced by ticking numbers,
she gets up
619–
she is too tired.

she knows the race.

outside, no firm clouds of black–
only brown, white and pink.

just go out.

not by layers,
she unfolds her night;
she Imagines herself
still bundled in,

but glad
to be not.

rest of her bones and parts
cuddles the drill;
she finds the centre
takes the hold.

and finally,
in that small obedience
of breath and body–

she is
at rest.