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Poetry

A purple kite
against the wall
with the wind still in it.

Above the side altars
with the brass candelabras
and unlit candles,

purple ghosts. Purple ghosts
behind the votive trays
in the vestibule, too.

Only the sacristans
collecting for burning the excess
palms are left uncovered, for now.

Here stood the Little Flower;
here, Saint Jude—the wooden flame
atop his head still burning.

I would like to be a purple ghost
carried away by that kite.
Some prayers don’t ask a thing:

Exiled king! the homesick,
and the burning.
A fluttering feeling of the wind.


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