Last Grace

The last time asked 
to say "Grace" - you
know. It's never that 

easy. You're supposed 
to somewhat beautifully
bless the food, but in a
humble way, all props
to God - I
found
myself

among protestants! 
To honor their piqued 
peculiar fixity against
them Catholic "Bless us
oh Lord" alphabet-song
soulless recitals, too well
-known, too long-worked
in groove to rut to be really,
truly understood, the lyrics 
lost in a too-classic tune (so
went the bigoted knock!), I dug

in
with such gusto I had,
and have. "Oh, 

Lord," 

I said. 

I suspected then
and now calmly reckon
a couple others who knew me
better than well
might've redoubled
my thought, on that

one, but 

"From an almost infinitely 
infinitesimal speck, you 

caused all this." I looked 
around the table, but well 
below eyes. "In inexorable 
lockstep chain of causality! 
By your will and grace, can 
I get an amen to this? Let us! 

Gathered here to break bread,
pass salt and cut mains and sides
with family style propriety, pause

now

for the moment. To bow
to a mystery all of us love. May
you, Lord,  

please, 
boost
our eyebeams

to high-beam. 

so we each
may pierce the cracks 
in the mortar-work of these
deep
wells
of subjective alienation"

pause

"In which we float, 
none
too well, where we are
well-enough. By your 
uplifting light, 
we find hope
halfway down
a seemingly infinite
height, where we bob
treading deep water halfway
up from infinite depths,
and 

perhaps 

by the light
that spills and breaks 
through the cracks,
from passing well 
floating by one's own,
in the interlace 
of light, 

may we be somehow uplifted?
Somehow sure?

Sure."

"And knowing you,
the source of all such
light -" 

A low-beam smile 
having got through this
finally breaks

"-call it Grace." 

That 
was probably the last 
I'll be asked, but if you're 
called into pinch hit 
and coach signals bunt, 

hit it out of the park
at least, I say. 

By means of trick bunt, 
of course.