Kevin Heaton

Cyprus chalices gild more slowly quartered in wooden
nickels. We see earth, a quandary of skewed parameters.

Flippant passing lanes flipping-off red lights. A larghissimo
rotunda: unique, timeless, beautifully scored but rootbound,

frangible on its push-me pull-you spindle. Flatulent
from breech births. A crescendo of sostenuto tympani

chords and paid forward promissory notes. We gather
as pilgrims in tempera colored almshouses, contrite as rogue

monks, offering marzipan oblations and almond chest milk
to waif children. We grope stained glass at Casa de la Caritat.

We believe. Still, nature is not confined by her terrain to an orb
of cloud deck shadows. Faith is ambient light and louvered

patinas. Shimmed cornerstones. Mustard seeds—ceded
mountains. An unseen loving cup, half-full of blossom scent.

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