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leaves longing
dying in the dust
waiting for a drink
of sunday morn
the taste of everafter
will singe the devil’s tongue –
with want for life
we pressed against –
the hope for
things undone
there are no words
I’ve tried them all –
and made a few my own
folded verses
into maps –
so sure they’d take me
of ways
the heart remembers –
a name among the scars
how could we want
for heaven –
and still not see
the stars

. . .