Places of the holy are not just in temÂples
hintÂing of thisÂtle-colÂored bodÂies, sulÂphured-crysÂtal wings,
and pleaÂsurÂable dreams.
Holy is in the unquesÂtioned presÂence of heart.
It is in places where those go
with bleedÂing noses, torn ears, gashed throats
with no hope …
those letÂting go into the current’s flow.
It is in places where kids go
huntÂing shiny stones, black beeÂtles, splashÂing waters
among puffÂing danÂdeÂlions …
where even scorÂpiÂons feel ground falling away.
Holy is in places like oceans of air
where flags float, change, shape and move,
are moved …
like mirÂaÂcles of wind travel.
