Summer 1985 • Vol. VII No. 3 A Gathering of PoemsJuly 1, 1985 |

If God Permits

God, pretend my soul is not a gypsy. Pretend that ghosts do not cast shadows that blacken the road in front of another man. Do not pretend I am the wind that keeps coming back, yet is forever blowing itself away, and returning again with fouler breath, or sweeping the body into a mouth of earth, an earth always too young to swallow or hold its food down, that is full of bones and baby teeth that cannot sever the nerves of the dead. 

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