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The word is dangerous when it touches

the spirit of a time that lags behind
ahead, across and over the rushes,
the reeds that cleanse the smirched feverish mind:
Escape is the instant, the potential
of smoke clearing the air, bombing the sky
tearing away tears from differential
equations of self, of face, of time's eye
in the hands of the beholden to God,
where conversation stalls actual meanings
and slashes the back as it spares the rod,
and savors the sounds of private screenings:
Footsteps in the dark, footprints in the Word
trace a path from One to the tripled Lord.
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