over grace working freely
over the humid chill of september nearly-gone
(in the blink of an eye)
over sleep and insomnia,
that power of night and the arms that sleep
twisted around my frame
autumnal bliss in this grass and tree and stone place
like a cloister or the back and golden side chapel
spinning off of the altar, behind the choir stall
where we go to pray
or to entertain Mary
or to sit in the shade
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