Still working. Jesus, may it be so that you are still working. Still working in Palestine and Israel. Still working in Crimea, torn by loyalties and language, power and poverty. Still working somewhere in the remote direction of Congress.

No.

I mean:

yes, but no.

Let me start again.

Jesus, still be working on me. Please Jesus, still be working in me. The cracks have been patched over too many times. The voids have been stuffed like a spare closet where all things are hidden. My soul is tense, holding its breath…for what? Holding its breath against failing, against breaking, cursing every patch job that slips its place. Tell me, please, that you have not lost hope for what can be done with the scrapheap that is me. Show me that you can do what I beat myself up trying to do. Keep working, I beg. Piece something together that will be useful to you. For the love of God.