Because my friends have died, will die, I praise
these clean white sheets that smell of nothing dead,
their taking off or putting on, the rise
of cotton hope so small I discard dread

ten seconds more. No seashore near these waves
of air, I dream a faithful raft of sleep
to float my loves on prayer past fear or pain,
to sail away my well-worn doubt, to breathe

again a peace that’s daily lost, but found
a minute here or there in what is cleansed,
returned for weekly ritual, profound
simplicity of pause. Because my friends

are gone, I breathe in now, the billowed sheets,
the only silent prayer I dare to speak.