The Shakers built
thresholds in their sleeping quarters
so that each room
could be swept clear
every day.
And the dustbin
could be hung up high
next to the broom.
Done,
done now,
Not in some God-forsaken future.
God lives in the daily dirt.
Forgiving,
forlorn,
but present.
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This is one of the best poems I have ever written. A metaphysical. Maybe I could explain why I think that, but that would be…futile?