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Joseph Milford

A SACRAMENT

 

No salt is left in me.

My ash

Is wayward birds.

 

I have tapped

The well

Over and over with need.

 

Showers drought us

And the sweet feed

Makes the bulls gaunt.

 

I have the pill

We can all take

To slake the suffer

 

Into plastic,

Yet this makes us all

Corpses.

 

How about this:

I give you my seeds;

You give me your flowers,

 

And then

As comets fall,

We sit, calm

 

And try to trust each other.

 



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