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a sunday


dawns,
a beam piercing
dreams
awakening unsleeping
mood and, me?

I
turnover
and sleep, again, til noon

the dust having settled
on this last.


come
sunday, itself
and it’s all incrementals,
no bright-eyed certainties
to clear the mud between our toes

alittle more learning, then
he said...as if that mill
had not already grist enough

alittle more time,
then, awaiting the grace
of life



John Henry Calvinist