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Poetry

If righteousness remains,
it is moonlight glinting

on the mica-flecked steps
and waxed lips of barren

concrete planters as midnight
skaters’ kickflips grind

oblivion near the courthouse
sign’s annunciation

where stragglers huddle
in a delinquent arc

against the wind’s cold
dispensation of Guilty 

and Not in which any
joke like How do you 

make God laugh? means
it’s time to split wheat

from chaff, to let whoever’s
without sin pull

from the ashtray’s dark
one more damp refry

since those who believe
surely never die.


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