When Times Become Places

Our apparent bodies stay here
and nearly-places come to us.
We don't need our walking boots.

Our almost-footfalls sound like music.
We turn a dial and
travel with flicks of our fingers.

As times become places,
our obvious bellies are full.
We live in grace.

Comments

Her Holiness said…
I really like your poetry. It's really good...
enthalpypress said…
thank you aimee. I don't hear that every day.

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