Because devotion. Because ether. Because the saint holds a paintbrush, his sorrow. Because the grass may grow sharply, its knives. Because wonder. Because somehow a dove has nailed itself to the shadow of a tree. Because at some point in this holy story, a wrought iron door is opening. Because we could not speak for ourselves, we let the molecules do the talking. Because the power lines, the city. Because the city, the fires. Because each square of hope turned out to be hopeless, we let our eyes roam as they pleased. Because the painter’s gaze, no exit. Because illegible the text of the dove’s scarred wings.
 Photo by VV Nincic

Elizabeth Knapp
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