out of my mouth
like derelict chewing gum
or an ectopic pregnancy
run errant.
I confess.
That, and that alone,
allows a blessed pause,
like the mythical marriage of Jesus.
My landscape
precludes Nazareth,
but I was raised
to serve and oblige.
I wait, sweet-tempered,
for an abstraction
colder than Truth and sweeter than Death.
.
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