two coals burning incense clouds to the heavens,
abandoned pretty much to the harmony of us
Tiny Lazarus.
Your story bigger than you and us.
a thousand pink buds headed toward something
that can’t be turned back,
A sudsy swill once, since restored
and clean enough for waterfowl to roost.
who, when I saw her, was so small she could have slipped inside a pillowcase
Look, see the downy feather of ashen hue?
I assume I was seen in the way
a postcard is seen
it is easier to trust God with worlds than with sons
