Monday, January 21, 2013

After reading Denise Levertov

And from the cross he finds me,
his gaze glassy, dimming
(I'm crouching, hiding myself
behind a nearby scrubby hillock),
and says, words catching in his throat
(and after a raspy, rattling inhale,
one of his last?):
"No words are needed. Feed my sheep."

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