(Poems) – rotten dogwoods

The churches are full of gilded hunger,

drunk on blood, praying with hands closed.

But the pagans pray with their hands open,

So I leave the rotten dogwoods,

for the shivering willows,

and spread my hands out,

breathing so deep

that my lungs could fit the entire world inside.


The kids won’t be alright, 

but their hands will be empty:

open wide to take the torch.

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