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Poem by H.R. Harper

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Finally I find
why wounds will
help. I put my hands
inside them, to
prove I am alive,
to verify the divine
in me until
it’s exhausted
and then perhaps
I’ll die in something
that looks like
prose, wrapped
in thin
white linen
as temporary
as skin.
 
Even doubt
has a beauty,
a purpose.

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HR Harper is a writer living in the redwoods above Santa Cruz, California. A student of meditation and kenotic traditions, he writes to understand the nature of human consciousness in a natural world humans seem to be ignoring and destroying. He began to publish in 2021.