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Easter, 2012


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Easter, 2012

Bi Janus

Passing Eliot’s cruel month

and returning to the Passion

once kept safe to me as history,

I am falling past argument

toward beatitudes.

That the tomb is empty

is no great surprise,

nor that the women

found the emptiness.

They have tombs in them.

This story, absorbed

by my bones in youth

leafs out in guncotton boles,

but its root is in a soil

I cannot penetrate.

I am falling encircled

by the serpent,

tail in mouth, wheeling

around the fleshy axle,

the root older than memory.

Once out of nothing come,

born anew, leaving us

origin in emptiness as story,

who will control the violence?

Better we know the sacred as tomb.

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