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let us be still

at easter.



sugar haze,


nocturn calls

to faith

we’ve shed

like desiccating and

pearlescent skins -

still. let there

be silence

somewhere in our

blood, scarlet

like the

feathers of

the phoenix

or the rising sun

behind the

hanged man’s hair.

when we are

still, at easter,

as if enacting

in our bodies

dark dusk on stony ground

as if rehearsing

for the long and low beyond

we are right here.

and the world

is such unfurling green,

that we are

not nothing

in our stillness,

but the music of the magnitude.

we are a thousand

living stones

lit by

the slow quiescence

of unfurling buds.

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