in
July’s church of clouds
cicadas
patrol the garden gates
singing
their stinging reminder
of
Summer’s feast of the body
taken
in slow savored bites
I
am mindful of each ripe drip
of
poison and antidote
where
laying waste to promise
dances
with hope in the words
that
I will have wrote
blue
sky background
the
sound of spill frenzy laughter
arcing
in the bowed rain
bending
towards noon
on
the leaves
from
last night’s thunder
it
explains why I lean
towards
the light
be
it fire or Sun
and
the billow-vapors of ash
cast
as a shaped-gravity hunger
for
understanding time
I
question myself, sometimes
with
my fingers inter-clasped
folding
each scolding I give myself
for
always crashing before the coronation
sowing
this into what I say
see,
I accept my failure to see
that
I could hold something bright
that
Love might be older
than
what time can
wrap
around today
and
no, I don’t mind staying lost
even
though I know
places
of beauty to pray
EJR
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