may the calendar
that we carry
in our hardened heart
fall unceremoniously
off the wall
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and may the sight of the second redemption
come not when the gates open
or the last confession slips through
our lips, trembling and ashamed.
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let harvest abound in the exile without end
for growing seasons do not belong to human beings
they belong to the sun
and the moon
and the wind
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all that willful life
stubborn and unrehearsed.
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