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Whistle of Flame
How do I get my hands
into the proper position
to cup my own heart
like an offering?
How do I hone them
into the shape of a bowl
and make the rounds for alms
to all the local dumpsters?
If I carried a stack
of wood in my arms,
piled like ribs
of the martyrs
up past my eyes,
would I stumble
on that icy hill again
to an abandoned
church of stone
now fallen like a cairn?
All of me would burn
by my dedicated breath
and just one spark.
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