has only been the garb of god
I have not used it
as my defenses
but to relinquish
all
your courtroom
is translucent
the sentence
always
to love
each step
that I abandon
let me brandish
the next
in my knowing
your harp
holds the ancient tune
each string --- a candle
and the shape of the wood -- a cathedral
which catches the soul
in its melodic net
Your tune
is the fingers of your tribe
rattling their return
(rapping on the door)
already kissing the floor
with reunion
I am always near
if not,
then
I, myself, am you
Your Beloved
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