This poem was born as a note roughly scribbled in a notebook.  I wrote it from deep in the Black Hills of South Dakota, as I drank coffee on the porch and marveled at how loud the silence was.


 

i close the door

and exhale

blocking out

 

the

recalcitrant

voices

and

pinging

devices

and

humming

mechanics

of

modern

life

 

the hills rise up

to meet me

 

and unmoving waltz

of

invitation

and

desolation

 

loon-cries pierce

the mist and i

 

am no longer

 

seeing

through

a

glass

dimly

 

i am in

the Inner Room,

 

knee

deep

in

shreds

of

holy

curtain

 

that which I do

is deftly usurped

 

by that who

I

Am

and

i

remember

 

 

 

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