Priest spoke with a stammer, so the homily appeared unsteady, yet mysteriously intentioned, certain in validity. Warm air outside enclosed the noon faithful, likely focusing on miners brought to lip of earth from half a mile beneath. The priest reported goodness differed from avoidance of the not-good. One should place alert attention to new ways of making goodness, help someone remove a path. I watched his face attempt to bring forward the shape and sound of words. A halting quality preceded complicated tones, remote from substance. A lean man, he looked out across the flock as I have seen a friend of mine repeatedly pave a lane, then walk away. I sit apart within my small self, avoiding touch of hands, lightly nodding when the time for wishing peace arrives. Unvarnished words yield new simplicity, that occupy unleavened space. As ritual in turn removes discourse. We hold our thoughts in check, perceive, while re-perceiving, moving past insistent and deliberate new breath.
Part for the whole, immediate repair of future points invoking a communion
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