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1 Psalm Some of us may find the truth in the cracked agate heart of these afternoons by the salutary waters, striking friezes in the droll clay. A thing begun by dragon’s teeth sown in dust may end in an airy cocoon but it is the middle we are muddled in like a trial convened testimonies ago. Who were those original plaintiffs anyway? Because the gods wished to understand poignancy, they dropped rocks upon us, ground us in the sidewalk with their immaculate heels, drove their chariots through our markets so we might be caught up and turned into axle grease when probably a slap in the face would do or the face on top of the true face we know is under there somewhere stitched with neurons like a jellyfish. Another season has plumped these melons, hemmed wildflowers in the skullcap, doused the holding tanks, hatcheries overflowing, another night muffling the children, those lambs, so we are free to spelunk our own wounds that have grown so glossy and numb, a feast for metaphor. But weren’t those real arrows borne in a real eagle’s claws, real people with iffy inner ears, inebriated libidos who laid out their paltry wares and saw them turned to gold, who bathed naked in hidden cataracts, drank from a single cup that never emptied, who cried out in dark lichen-flickered passageways and were answered? ...

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