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Cast the wonder of who we are — an old man, a child, their story — as if held over a font. The aged words pour like fortune over the child's head precipitating ends. A choir sings and southern crux moves across a sky above suburban light displays and lorikeets that thrive in yards.
to build the bless of a soul spun in curled leaf left since autumn dry on the stem (another is unstamped in the box beneath the latest literary magazine) my fingers tentatively test it for spinners and for silk that shivers with prey ...
With the same sense that meets the keys I stroke her arm. This tactility makes the tangible seem eternal, as if the want to write were training me to count on time. My mortality is misdirected thus by a capacity to touch. And when I put my arm around her shoulders, I feel beneath the skin the sharpness of the bone.
I woke in a strange dream of a priest who pitied the child born to the mother no longer a nun. From the pew behind, I was the I that spoke up to power.
It is a coal picked from the fire at the altar of mercy. A gust billows — smoke fills the tent pitched for a god. One red note pulses where the cherub blows. A seraph's breath blisters the lips.
This is the wild thing that turns to loam, the seal pup dead on the shore, a fish caught in a crevice of rock when the tide ebbs.
From the glistening trees the chorus of what was said became me, before I registered the sacrifice. Now from the yes, a small face looks up mute. My eyes are still selfish and my ears hunt a magpie's repertoire. She spills it on the blue page.
In the winter sun a soul twitches neck and head, neck buried in the pulse of a round and thinking flesh.
copper bands for arthritis .. your child's latest lego .. a pile of ashes at the turn of a lane .. some small thing .. given back at last
"Torquay cliffs"; "Coming into town from Holy Thursday to Ash Wednesday"; "Eucharist".