Arts + Scene » Poetry

Passover

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Let’s begin with a map and a plan;
then let’s fold it and follow,
go where the light shines
stepping in the graceway of the moment.

The shine of my shoes,
in the dew, dark leather in the green.
They squeak like a saddle squeaks only smaller.
The peak of frog song heralds the season of your death.

When I think of Golgotha, I think of dust;
but it must have been spring.
There must have been clouds for the sky to be dark.

Storm herald clouds pass over.
Shanti Shanti and Kyrie in the same breath.

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