The Pilgrimage: Part 27 / Phillip Neal Tippin

Out of touch 
May touch 
Ground,
Less right,
More sound,
The worst of sin,
More innocent.

A split in the heart of the cotton
Wood’s westward face gave way
To wind, and left the defile 
Of a wounded woodslide hollow.

Addressing with
Clarity, mystery.

Please stop me
If you can
Improve my secondhand.

To break the air with fire
Is all the punk could want.

Ordinary time is the purview of Christ,
The end of religion the prerogative 
Of His extraordinary time— apart,
There is no time for the ordinary.
   (Backed by the Extraordinary)

Go back to being here
Finding that two sided ear.

The soil says softly 
What the clods speak aloud.

Writing with remnant words
Remnant say
When the fear seems gone
Pray for a stay


All poetry and supplementary material: copyright 2020-2021 by Phillip Neal Tippin. All rights reserved.

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