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En Route To Manna Land Jesus' delicious syrup, how will we know your name? Sometimes I wake with you sticky in my hair, your basic sugar a crystal crust upon my eyes. I spit in my sleep, but still your thickness forms-- a tacky blanket for my rotting teeth. The mint of Jordan can't rush you off-- and across many dreams, willed Moses hands wave to me in brief sign-language. Something about a garden, the hatefulness of an epic prayer. Amen, I say, as two cardinals are tormented my a matricide; never to know how sweet it is to kiss their mother's mouth. |
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