II: Into the Light

 

 

The fields flow open as a surplice, cassock,

Stiff wildflower-wine birettas curating heads,

Hymns for all the flocks, shawls curly white,

Since shriven, bowed, bent, like their pastor,

Cudgel notched along the common, level way,

Except for one black stray sprung from the herd,

And land, tony dress, hot airs, needing only light,

And dream, and space, a way up high, arias all its own.

 

 

GTimothy Gordon

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