Old friend, talking.

set of various socks drying on rope in backyard

It never stands for direct description, 

this simmering confusion when it

boils to miracle, to rain over  

upturned face. Its radiance runs

often with burn scars, away from

orchestral strings, into wet socks.

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

2 thoughts on “Soulspeak”

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