o Love ever-burning

Who will lift the shroud of night
heaven’s light fresh to reveal
overcome death’s with’ring blight
deign our wounded hearts to heal?

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and yet here’s Truth

tell us, bethlehem
how the King will come —
enfleshed in the frame of a
child obscure?

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o, i forgot

o, i forgot
to write

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west of eden

on this side of the
prelude to spring, all of that
secret world is gone

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sunset

i know you’ll forget
but the sunset is golden
against the bare elms

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green jello

every year the dish looms before me on the thanksgiving buffet, its lurid contents lurking, watching for the next innocent plate to appear.

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sehnsucht

sometimes the light
hits the golden leaves
just so, and i forget to breathe

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another poem written

distress is what i feel at the thought
of four poems yet to be written
when it would have been ideal
to have had them done a week ago

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