raising the dead is not easy.
so many scatter by
afraid to watch his hands
for they have become so bruised
working their magic.
he speaks in circles, of maddening
crowds parting in simultaneous
apathy. ..he speaks in warbled time.
in a whisper.
in a ghost of a hush.
to her.
his. .. .
and he begs a being to climb,
crawlcreep the concrete, up to him,
through the parched pavement,
through the cracks growing weeds
which to his needful fingers feel
like wildflowers, a deathbed of daisies
for his. . .
love will grow her again.
just watch.
he pushes pennies into the crevices,
prays for some change,
and begs us to walk around
his. ..
piled dirt garden where lost grows foundlings,
sanctity blooming into shaking lips, kissing
the ground, and behold. . .
his….
faith has reaped a dandelion face,
and he tells us it is
hers.. … .
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