Around midnight he took the oxycodone
and listened to Arvo Pärt’s “I Am the True Vine”
over and over, the snow falling harder now.
He switched off the light and sat without dread
of the coming hours, quietly singing along;
he smoked any number of cigarettes without thinking
once about the horrifying consequence;
he was legibly told what to say and he wrote
with mounting excitement and pleasure,
and sent friendly e-mails to everyone, Lord
I had such a good time and I don't regret anything —
What happened to the prayer that goes like that?