WHEN i write of sleeping/lived Christ, i see him at midnight
in a crucified way, love wrought-out with grace:
the blood on the walls, the lusty grief,
the artist lying on freezing pavement,
like a drunk in an apartment.
Always?for whom in whom: for the Lord.
Over it, dreams are made, then screams are made,
grief, pain, loss, longing, fierce...
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