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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.