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Poetry

Invisible One,
when I close my eyes
I can see you
in another way
like part of a Pollock
I can make sense of
not because I see
a figure or a face
but because the love
of a moving brush
slung over wet gesso
tired of a life of air
proves much.
Things are not things.
Time is not time.
Love is not love.
But prayer is a thread in air
between. A wire clear
oil trickles down
as slow as light at noon
and young hunger.
Angels, please turn my words
like bees make flowers
into honey and wax
and a form for genesis.

 

 

 

 


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