By Alex Rettie
My elemental, austere Lord –
Who mutters in Your muffled voice
that virtue is its own reward,
Who wrecks and bids the wrecked rejoice –Have mercy on this little soul
who cannot summon any strength,
who cannot forward any goal,
who cannot find the height or length
or depth or any other measure
of Your might. Sing, Lord, if You can,
a pure canticle of pleasure
contrived for this most impure man.
Bless the poor being before You
who wants only to adore You
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Alex Rettie writes from the top floor of a rented house in Calgary, Alberta. Alex's poems have appeared in journals in Canada, the US, and the UK, including Raceme, the lickety-split, Queer Toronto, Passengers Journal, Sinking City, and SoFloPoJ.
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