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  • I’ll take this piece of blue rag cloth I’ll roll up the edges as a sow bug rolls out of
    Lying down on the stark wooden pew bench in a church
    scented with myrrh and terror;
    Jesus ; looking at his effigy
    the bleeding the cross
    of wine and host the din of choir rolling up the pages of a missile thin thin paper with tiny words that mean nothing.

    Now I take the blue cloth and hang it on the fence with a prayer written on it.
    I’ll breathe into the gold. I’ll give my breath to the dead to earthquake to tsunami to frost to extinction to hurricane lightning.
    To the lipstick red to sacred owl song and Venus in exaltation.
    My breath now belongs to :
    Fire in winter
    Night sky.
    Moon void of Course.
    Fox print along the morning path.

    The barn where the wind heads off to rest in the evening, right before supper.
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