GIFFORD AND GARRISON
Much like a random sheeting of
rain on a map-glass for places
that did not exist, intentions
covered everything fully; to
leave blurs and runnings on
a simple-viewing pane. One
thousand steps I'd climbed
to be here : high above a
distant landscape falling all
around me. Caravan? Wagon
train? Or just an image of
the world's delight in being?
-
You'd held out your hand as
we were climbing, and I took
it. I was hooked, and probably
by stair five hundred too. Why
go halfway to Paradise, when
only Heaven will do?
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