8.27.2009

crucifixion

shaded, the forest speaks in violin
between the vines, the saviour's sins
have rotted into the bark of a pine.
cold climates for colder fingers,
tracing the lines between an empty collar bone,
a sole pocketed coin,
left now with nothing but the needled air
and the phantom of hair they might have tangled.
nothing but a little stain of blood.

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