The Holy Grail Poem by Leslie Philibert

The Holy Grail



magic or wood or lost in light
inside of heaven, silver-struck
to press against dry lips
hands sanded with night air

O Aramaic song! a copse perfect with faces;

but for all this the common is round.

a plastic cup on a dirty table in a roadstop
thrown next to a route, sick with neon.

so say this; read this;

the banality of a miracle is always hidden.

Thursday, July 10, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: religion
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