An arpeggio rising beyond our ear, they
who strum and straddle the lines
between heaven and the earth, the angels incorporeal, they
think us foolish to strain after touch, sight, sounds,
the echo in our marrow of a descending chord
that sits in the solar plexus skewering us to the pew.
You will find him, they say, as you saw him leave,
wounded and glorious, witnessed by others and told to you
as though in a dream, fixed and risen barely beyond translation
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