Written by R.A. Loyd

 

Perhaps madmen

belong in caves

wherein the Lord

receives them tenderly

with mercies unknown

to a shaking, howling,

blasphemous generation.

 

A mist on the concrete

is three oceans

to the hermit;

the branch of oak

is a sight of two colors;

to the ascetic

it is ninety proverbs.

 

Every game and trial

is lowercase theology

to the itinerant monk,

whereupon the body

is a constant altar,

a legged Israel,

a country of praise.

 

 


 


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