Pulling the curtain aside, looking

for the revelation of the day not

yet come but seeing its promise,

opening the window and looking

out eastwards seeing the banks

of grey, writing my gospel here,

pulling the days aside looking

for validation, transformation of

the ordinary days lived carelessly,

shuffling them into a new order

as though, in themselves, they

were not light enough nor full

nor good enough, seeing out there

a dull mottle covering the higher

cloud as if it were smoke drifted

here from the vast fire of the sun.

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