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Poetry: Meditation

by Michael Bettencourt

Created on: August 10, 2008

MEDITATION

It is almost-spring,
the ground clogged with winter.
I sit and wait.
The cry of geese slices the sky's throat
and the sky bleeds stars.

In the cup of my hands
is my original face:
my sins leached out,
bones empty saharas.
The sun cleaves me
as I watch motes swirl.

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