out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord
—more like out of the middle, the soft
chewy center of here: the mailbox,
the toaster, the dentist office: I cry
to you, or to nothing, I whisper
and roll my eyes: Oh, lord.
O Lord. Forgive us
our dailiness, our lists of lists.
The gearshift work, the newspaper cutouts,
coupons and cashback in the slow lane.
Whiteboard, whiteout. Little yellow
notes everywhere like moths.
Oh, lord. Remember
us, here: the soft warm milky middle,
its erasing breath, its easy arms. Here
where we lie, mostly and meanwhile.