The Kingdom

THE KINGDOM


Which is more frightening: 

the borderless expanse delineating  

there from here, or its sheer 


proximity, our faces so smeared 

with its paint we’re all but blinded

to the art? It is, as advertised,


at-hand, in-hand, and even—

per St. Symeon—is the very hand,

if nonetheless concurrently beyond


the grasp of our gouty minds. 

With such a far-ranging field

of near-likenesses, what might we 


then conclude of this kingdom,

this child—prismatic as a poem—

intimately known and endlessly opening?


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