Dreams of peace. The road opening just after dawn, mist rising off the blacktop. Thanksgiving dinner and no one a stranger.
These then are the eyes of Christ . . . Whoever has ears . . . And the unending focus on song . . .
Fear of lucre, of compromise, the absence of joy. The road opening in my dream and I began to float where it turned into Worthington. "Blood ink in bibles."
For you, then, these twenty sentences. These fragments. For you, then, all these compliments!
Elision, lacunae. God's eyes. Place the emphasis on parallelograms, won't you?
It was quite a year that year we gave to God. The ropy guts of the crushed skunk carrying over to the ditch. Also orange juice.
The road opening and filled with light. What a year, what a sentence!
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