Andrew Grace

from sancta

Look, is all. The cabin. Look. The lake. Flies like quarter-carats of Hell festoon the curtain. Slipped fires take to the sky. Sweet pine strewn with nude opal birds at its base. O if only my attention led to something besides more attention. A reward beyond what’s there: cloud, stone, rust, black seeds, silence. At least the darkening wood seems to answer me. All right. But quietly. Into your coat.