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Poetry

I have begun to think that God is small
like a wren, a piece of blue
beach glass
shining in the wet
of sea and sky, that double exposure. Every day

the huge sun, the blue vault brimming
with invisible stars.
Each night the echoing expanse
of dark and always God in the palm of my hand,
fluttering, gleaming like the soul

with sweetness, with a vast
reluctance to change us or give us
anything but that sweetness, despised
by the world
because it is so small.


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