Grace bathes us Inside and out, most of it passing right through, Our neuron mesh not fine enough to stop it Much less deflect its quantum beeline through space. We are sieves with holes the size of eyes, Splayed fingers trying to lift a beach. The pulse Is our built-in Geiger counter and the best . . . . Continue Reading »
Jerusalem, fulcrum of our uplift, Is not this rough plank the Cross, laid aslant Golgotha, The lever with which the philosophers boasted They could move the world? . . . . Continue Reading »
Where Equator and Prime Meridian cross is the one True Cross, the rood’s wood warped and tacked pole to pole. Constantine’s mother wrapped in sackcloth a splinter of it, Jerusalem souvenir. His fingertips tickle where they meet in the skies over Fiji. A nail pegs foot, foot, and Ross . . . . Continue Reading »
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