31

In the abandoned afternoon

I saw the Fates

Wiggle into a wrinkle of time 

Willing 

With the entire palm of my hand 

Solace

Allowing space for the sun to rise 

A meadow 

However

It become hard to remember God

But I heard Him once in your echo

Spending too much time speaking with ghosts 

We’re messengers

Mercury

The serpents who built the garden 

But throwing stares

A child with profound eyes

Barters with light thrown on wet streets

Under those arches were reminded

Of mothers

With everything on display

Less is true

Less is seen 

Now a forced contemplative

We hide and seek for

Sacrament 

A living sign

Of interior Grace