Invocation on a Sunday morning i He's a small man, kneeling down, elbows on a chair in backwater China. Hands open, face raised, he prays. His look, it must be one of absolute trust. I can't be sure. I wasn't there. Nonetheless, this prayer received its answer for here you are telling me this story of your grandfather and I can see that face - a mystery of finitude embraced within an endless grace that I believe as well, or wish to think I do. ii You look through the mirror at her failure to understand what you perceive - the mirror at your feet, and then look up at the mirror above to see yourself reflected with all the rest that you can know - not enough, yes not, and yet its beautiful. What could be more? iii It's a religious poem, don't be offended even if it cannot open any door for you. There are other poems better ones, the ones that you will write or read tonight. Imagine them right now, please, as saying everything that this one does. They're all the same despite the veil. And you will be my teacher. Please, I want to hear. iv. The piano has a new tune to play. For a brief second it overrides the tv. Not many notes. There are a C, B flat, G. The rest elude my ability today. The moment leaves behind its melody - a tune transcribed only by words I'm afraid, and my memory of what cannot be shown with words. v. The coffee has cooled but still tastes sweet as I awake. Goodbye.