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Written by Fr. Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
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Friday, 04 May 2007 |
You can write what you want, the blades
of grass still wait for you, and carry
your little cart of mother’s cameos and things.
He will take them too. Let me
go into the yard, all bones of me,
and sing today.
For I will wait for God to finish what I cannot.
I hear Him in everything.
It is so cool,
this deafened thing, myself, that writes,
like tendrils, like fingers,
what I would choke, like my own throat,
to have me warble,
like the sky, for Him —
melter of my dreams, melter of what
comes between us, like vellum earth.
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