The Shroud

Overcast sky, a fuzzy moon's true edges
obliterated like milk poured in the eye.

If you're not guilty, why do you hide?

Even crossing from great distance,
dead and white finds its mark-

a star, its sleepless dreamer, 
a prayer, its sinner.

How comforting the low, dark valley
where what God made shimmers
in the trees like light moving through

small glass windows, like tiny holes
beneath a blanket.

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