The interim shelf
of time to store
The potions a poet
can no longer both
Continue to
breathe and imbibe
Is a manner of God
Like an atom
shifting out the body
Love ceasing not
for lack of want
But for want of
the peace of acceptance
Of what one cannot
be
Knowing there is
no reservoir
The poetry must
flutter off like doves and ravens to the roost
Cooing and cawing
at a distance for the sound to muffle
In the winds of
recollection so that the detail in the painter’s stroke
Becomes dulled
into mud words and sponge cake dreams
The decadence of
detail is a lost child forgotten
In the cradle of
God’s procession
That a man can
high-hope to be what he cannot see
Wandering,
swimming, flying off
Praying what
returns is a beauty beyond what was possible without
Release
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