the feathered cape

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An elbow points from beneath its feathered cape
I am running to meet you
Show me the words

Are the feathers enough to hold me?
May I cross the threshold and take the sounds to share?
I am waiting, always

Beginning again, I put down my brush and pick up the fingers
Heaven smells close.

I wander in the fields of self-reproach
As if drugged
And my vision of the feathered cape
In my stupor
Lifts me up and out

I choose
Is the white light of heaven

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Filed under Big G., poetry