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Easter Morning

Prime At dawn, the shapes of cypresses in fogwere fingers pointing up from graves, as if what’s bornmight rouse the dead into an epilogueof mist that lifted, leaving swatches in whitethorn. Terce My breath’s the ectoplasm of a ghostin ringing air. The local churches callthe faithful while I mark . . . . Continue Reading »

Easter Vigil

You’re rising somewhere in the April nightAgain, as ever with returning spring.Your tomb will be found empty at first light Again. The dead cells of Your corpse igniteAnd flame to life; the spheres of Heaven ring.You’re rising somewhere in the April night To glory. For a moment all is right;The . . . . Continue Reading »

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