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A Certain Kind of Holy Men

 Not every wino is a Holy Man.
Oh, but some of them are.
I love those who've learned to sit comfortably for long periods with their hams pressed against their calves, outdoors, with a wall for a back-rest, contentedly saying nothing.
These move about only when necessary, on foot, and almost always in pairs.
I think of them as oblates.
Christ's blood is in their veins or they thirst for it.
They have looked into the eyes of God, unprotected by smoked glass.

Poem by Alden Nowlan
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