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Wednesday, April 7, 2010


(Angels Playing Cards)

There is too much light

In the room for anything irreconcilable

To happen. It will be recorded

Inside the caves, on the battlefields,

Across the purple moors and darker prairies.

The cards are flipped down upon

The table, voiceless like generations

Forced to speak to each other

Through the dark

Doors of time.

For each card is unforgiven, unforeseen

With traces in its skin of the stillness

Before birth, The Ascent of Mount Carmel,

The Olympian crucifix with its living

Christus smelling like wars and collapse

Through fire of great empires.

There is no betting at all. All blows away,

Just the open-mouthed angels constantly

Surprised at how the cards fall

As if by chance.

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