I enter these bowels again, knowing
in my gut I can trust this place. Not a trap,
an invitation to return: no cash required, no strings
attached. My feet
slowly tread this wide, flat path, cleared
and welcome
to all pilgrims who walk, wheel, or even
which was my internal posture the last time
I made this circuit, desperate
for discernment. Today my feet carry me
through this lush, verdant spot, magnolia trees and bloomed milkweed
testify to unicursal majesty. Frothy pines,
                                                                dappled shade, and
blue skies all cry mercy. I remember being here
before, begging for mercy. Today,
I have what I need, as hostas offer healing vistas. Willow breezes
brush by crackling cicadas and me, whispered
hallelujahs unwind my insides. Chapel
bells ring on the hour, not bidding
me to rush, but
to rest.
                              They say.
                                            Held within
this central place, my own skin now
embracing me
like a cashmere pashmina, I follow the sound of
                                                                            unclenching flesh.

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