Prayer

If I were in a book it would be the book in which some lesser angel bemoans the state of my soul and is comforted for it and is corrected for it by some greater angel who knows as the reader knows that it is not one’s soul that suffers the indignities of ignobility: the inability to curb the petty smallness of spirit, ungladness in the company of bureaucrats, anger’s decay, in the sense that my soul itself cannot be harmed nor tarnished though it can witness my sorrow on finding that illness alters me from the self I thought I’d more or less known. What can one do about one’s nature? I look at the spider that’s finally restrung its great wheel away from the door. I’d like to close the door, go away, leaving the spider be. I’d like to preclude the possibility of angel, as of prey.