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Liquid stone hurls trees

and thoughts of fire upwards

through glass of storied power.

Like the wound in Messiah's hand,

the rose window stands at the boundary

to a world of love and a love of the world.

The self is pinned under vaults

resurrecting fresh contours

in what I once found ugly.

"Existence is worthy,"

this mortal house sings.

"Grace is my gravity,

drawing the hurt and the well,

the dead and the almost alive,

to my altar.

If you will learn

the meaning of my architecture,

the architecture of all meaning,

you too may become,

in time's fermentation,

a gorgeous wound."


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