I have a black three-ring binder where I keep the poems I write occasionally. A white label on the spine carries the title in blue ballpoint: Prayers, Portraits, Post-Its. I intended the title as a place-holder till I found a better one, though to date nothing better has suggested itself. The present title came about simply because I'd noticed that the poems I wrote fell fairly neatly into one of these three categories.
“Prayers” is one of those words for which explanation is either unnecessary or impossible, but “Portraits” has its usual range of meanings. “Post-Its” are small, often dyspeptic observations and reminders (again, about what you'd expect).
The poems are arranged by category in the binder, but in no particular order within their categories. I won't identify a poem I enter here as a prayer, portrait, or post-it. In most cases I think it will be clear. And where it isn't, it never could be.
Where the roof of our house
was, an acre of mud
oozed down below the moon.
We dig now to find stars.