On the Resemblance of Poetry to Prayer

In that it is addressed to no one,
  Nor to the self, but
    To the troubled body
Of the world, from which it arises
  Also, a morning mist where light
    Scatters toward coalescence.
Moved at the mercy
  Of its humors, as the world
    By its elements,
My body, troubled, seeks
  To know the prime of movement,
    Even in this sanguine dew
Reddening the dry earth of midsummer
  Which steams, a pulse
    Of breath. Dwelling in general
Alteration, like the air thickening
  Toward thunder, the melancholic
    Rage of heat lightning,
A storm stalled, shifting somewhere
  Beyond the horizon, my body
    Cries out, hears like rain
From risen vapor a multitude
  Of voices, windswept toward whatever
    Cessation is solace, is rest.