>
the incense drifts under the incandescence
sometimes swirling like the Milky Way
and prayers are offered
audible words of faith and wonder
like spitting into a soup can
they hit and dribble down
I hear the echo in them
like the swirling of the Milky Way
they hang under the coherence
peering into the can I can
see evidence of a fainted
universe distilled in rings
then one voice in stillness
lay in a tin silo
standing with a string dangling
and on the other end
a burning, a glow scented
of frankincense
and the smoke rises
and wanders while
I keep spitting prayers
Gerald the Writer 
>beyondaroundnot seenbut withbeforeafteralways