Oklahoma is a land for the dead;
Oral Roberts still has his hand
in the till; crosses gleam, a football
field apart, on every highway.
The living lay beside still water
and know nothing, see nothing,
but speak continuously
as if their voices could drown
out the past, present, future.
Prayer, they call it, as if they could shoot
the moon and it would mean something.
Prayers and prayers, they say.
Pray, they tell me. I see
the mouths all moving as one.
Praying for the world to be
as ugly as Oklahoma has made
itself: gold towers, white hands,
hoods, dead bison left to rot
at the base of Mount Scott.
And yet, I see those golden grasses
sway and am swept away
by the tides of that inland sea.
To see, to really look, and know
the grasses turn and face the sun
as prayers melt into oblivion.
