Sasquatch dreams of untamed rivers wakes to tolling of bells
the Anglican Church
on the corner begins

within facade of dark red bricks round stained glass window
steeple squared like smokeless chimney behind me

I am lost,
circling near the entrance,
beckoned by a finger
into dim chapel

seated on hard wooden bench
a woman sings into my ear
drums
sharp as a stele

It is a metaphor for nothingness,
the infinite, for silence, death,
for all that calls us into question.

Vested in colorful frock, the smiling priest shook my hand as I passed back through arched doors, a large creature with big cold feet there's something more serious about the fall than any other season. Maybe it's the light that gradually grows darker, making everything seem less trivial, forcing you to look to eluding evolution.

Circling my
self,
i'm caught
       in
the dreams
             of
a woolly
            moth.

 

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