Thursday, October 27, 2005

page 35

pale wrists of God
salt the earth in slow motion
accumulating in a
steady gathering of
and still
the day seeps sleepily
from under the hem
of my tattered white robe,
oozing thick and
no matter how frantic
my hands.
And looking up from my chore
I can see no further
than the sloppy street corner
beyond the pane that divides
cold from warm.
Still I brighten
and dry my hands
knowing you are turning
toward home.

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