The Scars of God’s Hands

The Scars of God’s Hands

My soul clung to the dust, now dust clings to my soul. Your life-breath, once blown up the nose of my father, once exhaled in fruit-statutes, once blown across the dry bones until they could get up and dance; breathe life on me. Speak again the six stanzas that climb...

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Old Man at the Blueberry Bushes

Old Man at the Blueberry Bushes

Blueberry bushes brush bungling hands. Hands heavy with age —quivering unhelpfully— gather taste gushing gems of tang. No rot. No root-break. The ripped branches are simply savaged off by shaking old hands. Hands tired of being bound- back for decades. Held mute by...

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