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Poetry

———————-Holy Thursday, adoration

Headlights enter through the window like a mob
——-and, in a flash, pace
the repurposed cafeteria. Jesus in the garden;

Jesus in the Altar of Repose. Most of us resist
——flinching when in dim light
someone misjudges a folding chair.

All of us note the rain pulsing like a heartbeat.
——Then we turn back.
I try to meditate on the agony, the sweat

turning to blood, not entirely unlike the first miracle,
——but mostly I imagine
the smell of wet lilacs or worry about puddles

waiting in the parking lot. Someday, I’ll swear
——it’s the silence I miss
until I find it, silence only, in some ordinary room,

inattentive and ringing like an aloof promise
——of too many little victories
and no promise of shedding blood.


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