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Our bonfire took up life on the riverside.
We thought we were calling God's attention but

how? We've been here twenty years
taken out of envelopes, unfolded, refolded,
just another pair of midsummer nonGod people.

 

        Your hand curling into my pocket
        gets me every time.
        A deep reply of ambery breath
        and a slow, slow dissolve.
        I feel like a terrible host but then
        I remember the scrapes.
        (fingers, knees, knuckles)
        They say enough. Or at least its language

 

threads together like fire, which is
good enough for us white, whiskeyed,
nonGod people.

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