This is the place of prayer.
Here where the inward pointing nails
converge.
The ever-narrowing gate
intersection
when the world of time and space
yields up its measured form.

Here in the needle’s eye.
Dark upon dark.
The aching, echoing void
of the hollowed heart
suspended
at the point of change.

Unknowing
(and that is the agony)
bearing the unknown
to the mystery
at the place of prayer.

May Crowther