From the inky udder of night:
the first faint spray
of luminous delight
A milky grey, from far, faraway
like hearsay
dusts our cult of edges
Then the first light:
a million flickering altars
put Zoom calls to shame
Business suits
remember who they are:
robes of confession
Later, in the kitchen,
owl-light
gets shocked into submission
A fluorescent hand
grabs
a razor sharp utensil
Shepherding Presence
gets eclipsed
by good posture
People
stop straddling
the timeless trance of toes
Gallop a new horse:
the trash-talking toy
of the Corporatocracy
Come nightfall,
souls sheepishly swap
guilty twilight for an innocent one
Wait eight hours
for a glance
from a magnificent, world-saving guru
That living Master
of mercy
and forgiveness:
Ashram hours.
~Hunter Reynolds
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