Saul
Acrylic paint and dust. I can taste sunlight. Hear wind-chimes that have not been invented yet. That have already disintegrated into the deserts of the apocalypse.
I am at home in this living room. Even if i am not welcome.
St. Ambrose’s hymns are sung by children whose faces i’ll never remember.
Whose voices will weave into the river if my mind with grace and an undeniable sorrow.
Ripped dresses, burned houses, and tax audits late into the spring.
I find divinity in my shoelaces.
There is beauty not only in creation,
but also in the act of letting go.
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