I’ve humility to grace—with reality’s fever, roving
through mist and water; certain motion, swaying in the breeze, alarmed it’s
been so neutral—those with fire, hearts dissimilar, souls knitting flickers—the
maze as it churns, most likely a gift, made life in its horizon. Those lenses
those arms, sure reach into essence, to have lived a million eons. And days
were blue, marooned in faith, abandoned to a man’s understanding; decisions as
they chance, wilderness as it develops, spirit and body as they dance. By wit
of the moon, certain grace in humility, sweaty rain in the middle. Parts
sacrificed—language enhancing quintessence, most gentle kindness; severed
inside, permeating darkness, engaged to Hope. By vision of a prophet,
racing in stillness, so full it feels empty … more successions, radical
adjustments, soothing old wounds.
