Fall 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 4 Poetry |

Golgotha

There's a home in every part of the world. A man Told a man this inside a tent that hid them From everyone else. At the feet they become a multitude. When the ground shakes, a man's frock rips. When the ground shakes, a light seethes through the maxilla And it seems impossible to remain unchanged to the man Who asked for a man who would call out his name.

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