A steeple repainted with a Star of David,
the street still named for a saint—
I don’t remember half
the prayers I’ve said, even saying them,
the words I mumbled, quoting God,
distracted by the person beside me,
swaying into his prayers,
or distracted by the room’s stillness.
Any more is fanaticism,
any less, heresy. Open water
on one side, the bay on the other,
a beagle leashed to a bench
yelps for the beach
as if showing us how it is done.