A morning, a grace.
A grotto.
Your letters arrive in purple envelopes trailing divine steam. The mailbox is a universe. One doesn't explain their self to God, one simply consents to be authored.
A story, sentimentalized. Stylized.
We get in "our" way. Dew on the clover, male cardinals in the apple tree. The older horse is lost now, blind, can't find his way, and the fire around all of us grows dimmer.
May I with your permission kneel in prayer.
May I open my mouth in you opening your mouth in us. Sister Lycanthrope, Brother Moon.
May I bear with you the blood of you. May I bleed in you the horror.
May I flow in you the life of you.
Permission, admission, concession, precision, decision, elision, fission.
Who are thusly rendered angelic.
Monastic, monasticized.
We who reach you at all junctures in all ages, visible and invisible, mother and father, orphaned but apostolic, now and forever, amen.
No comments:
Post a Comment