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Of Eucharist

Upon the years in spun embossment
the sad recordings lost in thought
many were the stranger-lovers
whose place in bed has gone
This man's black confessional
a transient burlesque
has seen the sweaty handprints
scrawling over window glass
Not a mark of grief nor scar is seen
on the binding of this deep
where fall the heroes in their wailing hour
seeking safety, neither sleep
Morose, in cassocks face the drift
Repose to face the Spring
In patriot's fire cloistered in
Ashen branches terse 'round Autumn's breast.

15 Jul 06

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