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Street Preacher

January 3, 2015


Friday passed.
Sunday came.
Seven days.
Six in the sun.
Then one in the rain.
Amongst the dying.
And the saints.
You are a dove.
Amongst a parliament of ravens.
And the spots on dice.
A thrice pricked thumb.
And all that comes with it.
Snow in an empty garden.
The warm, opiate shore.
Lapping at my feet.

I believe.
Your mother’s name.
Was an oath.
And an oar.
For my boat.
Which I rowed.
To the isle.
In the middle of the lake.
There to slake.
Your thirst.
For what lay in the earth.
Interred there.
For many long year.
But you always preferred.
To have your hands in the dirt.
And your boat.
On the pier.

“You’re the best I ever had”.
Said the doe.
To the stag.
“You’re all I ever needed”.
Said the cow.
To the steer.
He said.
“Do you ever think”
“About what you spit in the sink?”

And she said.
“Who ever would”.
“Mistake those wine stains”.
“For blood?”
She was right.
In her way.
For when the dusk slays the day.
You forget Friday’s body.
Is Sunday’s firewood.


From → Poetry

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