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Against Absolution


I went to God but found
I was fog, expected to dissolve

across the shape of something more
substantial; assume the form
of matter, or someone

who mattered—the way weather falls
across any solid thing and breaks

upon it. God stared at me
staring back; more ice
in the cave of feeling, more darkness

in the cave of thought. I went
to God as a lark

lifts thoughtlessly singing
but gravity tugged everything
under the wing. Like spring trees,

my belief goes off in intervals, erupting
green. Where have they gone,

the missives I placed
in the branches?
Where has that girl gone

who scrambled higher, higher
to get, one way or another, closer

to what was promised? 



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