The river is a wound in the earth.
The river is the clay-red blood of love
pulling its silence through us.
Hymnal of sunlight, black script of trees--
a hand passes over bereft of its shadow.
And the soul is a small glass boat setting out.
(A vine hangs down into the water:
a strand of lightning ossified.)
(taken from T. Crunk's Living in The Resurrection)
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