The holy community
sings to God,
a gathering of the shattered,
the failed and fallen ones,
filling violet emptiness
They flow out of themselves
into each other.
They build a fire
in the center of their loss.
It could be a hungry log,
a trash can, your broken heart.
The holy community
is not a circle
of the perfect.
The untainted are too whole.
They will not become parts.
How could the woundless
give thanks?
Through what broken places
would they sing?
Photo by Art Wolfe, Gujarat, India
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