by Rosemary Rhodes Royston

When sound hurts,
when desire is a rock,
when darkness leaks from every pore,

the only cure is to bathe
in the light of the moon. 
Undress. Shed all that’s artificial

and lie down on the ground,
under the pine, in the middle of the field,
or on the moss by the pond. 

Feel the air on your flesh,
how parts rarely exposed
tingle. You smile. You now recall

something you’d long forgotten.
Do not move. Stay. 
This is prayer. 

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