He will, I trust, be less confused
by his companions.
Their gentleness will match his own.
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They made a boulevard through my midday woods
Whacked the weeds,
chopped the trees.
I don’t like it.
Morning scene
The Wesley
Eucharistic (g)host
Hospitality of the victim
Sacred Wood
Why do we ask why?
Because something in being
cries out to make sense
Stream of stones
Forest Service Road
Sometimes a spirit
Likes to play dead
Utrecht Journal 