I tried to meet God in the courtyard
Patrick Miller
Smoke wrapped mind, it turns to you.
The lighter’s head still vaguely warm in my palm,
the heat quickly rising,
the particles suspended in ecstasy,
the pull is steady and brilliant,
meeting the dappled framework of clouds.
I follow the prayer of movement
to the tops of the trees.
I am struck by a cold white pin of light.
This morse trance, antenna’s head,
it cuts through my adoration.
I am absent,
except for the mild reassurance of movement.
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