Prayers mark the way backward.
They thrust silvery lights
up out of the parched soil,
and the light lingers like poison.
It’s time for a change of clothes.
The hierarchies are disfiguring.
There’s chance in the chants
of the children and it’s reacting
strangely with the tumid heat here.
I only wanted mercurial tears.
But that’s beside the point.
The wind hurls me against
clarity’s burnished wall.
I wither on impact – a second rate ecstasy.

-r. miller

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