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Objects
My life is my hand
The whorls of my fingers...
a prayerbook,
or a map-
My hand, my life, holds a novel,
pages smelling of the book's history;
words smelling of the book's birth-
textured like green polished stones
Found Art
He is brilliant, yes, but evil. So evil I
despair of comprehending him. This man
doesn't want to murder his father and
possess his mother: he wants to murder God
and posess the cosmos.
Echo
All voices told me "no"
a chorus with the tides
like a mute echo-
echo, first hope
of sun and dirt
a single hope
set in the cliff-face
written in ancient script
chisled with tools
of steel sinew muscle
bone clay stone flesh
fire
There is nothing more to be said
There is nothing,
more to be said.
There is...
nothing more to be said
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