Three indulgences (in which we are all gods)

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1.

there’s a super-8 somewhere
of your great-grandfather lit in copper:

wild-horse nervy
hands full of earth
heavy as a field

an old man holding a small boy
the way old men hold small boys:

up

torch-like

like a thought birthed fully formed
from the temple of his head

like the only thing he knows
will get him through

2.

you

dark-breaker

bringer of salt gospel
and song of war on shaking hands

somedays i think if i could
have him hold you up like that
and know that you’d remember
i’d swallow this here sea

3.

these hands so full of hymnal books
are hands i got from him

who stacked a shed with quicksilver
and saltpetre to blow this all to sky

never seen those fingers any less
than perfect scarred and holy

never in my lifetime
saw them break a thing

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