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
darklybrightpress.com 