11/19/2023
Latin-tongued
soldiers made
their way
across marsh,
across prairie
whose foamy
dirt birthed
splendid flora.
It was there,
on that
terrain,
where I
found myself
at quarter-life,
or just past it,
nursing several wounds.
At the Wrong Saint
there was
basilica,
it stood domed
and hallowed,
but now here,
on the foamy dirt,
the blackland
prairie rising up
towards hills,
there was cathedral, also.