"Morning prayers" (2): (bothered by the young, this time)

It burns, god! like winds in or through the leaves  (hard even to look)  Stalks slope & redden
  but only in my   heart  First nations, lying below my feet, are an only offertory
    to grainy wing-shivered sky,      are still a relief to me
                                                                                         (floreat canada!)

I'll probably die angry, seared under all this milky sky  I'll try looking roseate to the eye, too'
  & oppose myself to the gamy stench of a whole world  Directing, controlling,
     no bigger than my fist (under so much sky) it goes, I go, my prayer,
                                                                                         scalding

I am kind, generous, big-winged, too writing with speed but incapable now of seeing beyond
   the people tree and  street    Scorpion bearing babies on its back, and milk, god!
                                                                                         it burns