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pontius

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on sundays,
pastor john glows with grace
and his eyes become matchsticks, sparking
with the holy spirit. he tells us that jesus’
blood runs in circular movements,

but all i can do

is look out the stain-glass window
and think how

cemeteries are strange. warm bodies
become slabs of stone that push daisies
in parallel lines. i remember i used to mourn
when i saw the winter frost
knocking on the headstones,

but now all i see

is an earth crowded
with so much decay that
we forget how to live.



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