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79 | Soul Over Lightning Let us imagine our hands reach beyond the desk and lamp, cold fingers tracing the story of the great shapes as they turn into fields of sunflowers where the song the migrant sings is the shadow in yellow recognition of who we are. When each step into the cathedral is announced, there is no staircase to inhabit the divine, this pause offering a chance to release what loves us and demands it in return. Let us carry our dead in our pockets and toss their seeds at the earth, placing faith in the breath of poverty— sound of recognition where no one answers and the streets are housed in the anecdote of light. When we pray to dirt floors, rooms come alive, their passage into the past blocked by white mountains seeking a voice that is believable when roots of trees end in rock strewn solitude and we lie to the rain and lie inside it. ...

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