Yellow leaves light up the evening with their yellow prayer
which I fold into the thin dress of myself.
Late autumn being the attar of least resistance,
as I am made of this falling and that rising.
As I am turned by the turning.
Here the scenery means souls travel in packs.
And here the scenery reveals a certain illumination
that is grosgrained into me — directions for sleeping and dreaming.
A faith so simple it gently anoints my feet.
A faith so clean it scrubs everything into a pure blankness.
I dreamt of God for seven days.
Seven nights and days, expanding... Read more
TAGS: creative writing