Even on tough
full days—like this
there are these
sort of soft spots
to find
where imagination—which is
nothing really—gently
swishes
in and floods around—filling
more than
just some void
of god.
But where voluptuous
air and empty
arcs of light
are simply
glorious
enough on their own—
what use has thought
for a loaded word
such as seraphim?—let alone
an actual—
whole crowded
host of them?
