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
