cliffords flowers

A whisper in the corner of my ear.
so improbable.
it slips between imagination and perception,
tells me I�should know whatapos;s
RIGHT...
itapos;s me, who is talking.
I know it.
it must have been me, in that
discarded whisper, that ignored
whisper.

a swell in my heart, that rush in my brain when I�see
Byzantine mosaics and stained-glass windows, dream of
monastic chantic under Gothic arches, clutch
my crucifix like a doll.
Iapos;m just in love
with�humanapos;s actions;
Iapos;m just in love
with�IMAGERY.

a crescendo of overwhelming power, when I�gaze
at the terrible majesty of the sky before me, the
clouds outstretched, their shape recalls
the divine horror of the atom bomb
I must weep.
I�must kneel.
I must still be high.

maybe, thereapos;s another soul on my seat at the pew;
maybe,�itapos;s another god whose name they mouth, than
that god who tried and never reached me.
maybe, they�will�listen
to his whisper;
see�him in that ocean
of their minds. �
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