To You, Perseus.

perhaps to pray
is to be inclined to ridiculousness
I hear you, I know of your tendencies, they
harp at me in my night-dreams,
for I have day ones too, and in those which I control better
You seek to seep into me.

I wonder, if God knows all,
If he did, does he control it, the great mass, the could's and would's
which seperate us only by a few degrees, hot
swealtering even in the London breeze that flows thru you
into me.

I know eighteen hard years seperate, one day maybe they won't.