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Poetry

Your place, not mine.
Vessels for water, of course.
Maybe one for wine.
Bread, smoked fish,
honey in an earthen jar.
Basins for ablutions.
The bed you share
with pleasure to ponder.
And somewhere for prayer,
rug, bench, stool, shelf
beneath the shell collection,
keepsake chips of Egyptian glass,
Silk Road cloth, a dark blue piece.
But the stones, where are they,
or whatever you’ve lifted
to make those small arms strong enough
for the thirteenth station,
his deadweight draped upon them?


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