in the lee of the moon

It gets quiet here in the lee of the moon. Nouns accede to verbs, plurals reduce to the singular, and every That collapses to This, The Great River, which predates god by eternity.

You called emotions my body's poetry, and you weren't wrong. Most nights you can find me lettersetting the prose between the Current's shores; the limbic begetting symbols and metahpors lost to the head but understood by the heart.

There are no assurances how long this bridge between the immanent and transcendent will last, just a promise of easy return till the vasanas are worn smooth by Grace's holy waters.