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Preparing the Altar.

 The knife on the neck of this empire is cold. This is the nature
of form, set like the pier over the sea's fingers, it carries us
near the wind frayed jewel of sunset that rolls will out like the
tongues of god. Time is a rented thing. We will, with vacant houses and
airplanes filed in fields like crosses--all become nameless as wind
glazing the pigmented
 pyramids of our irises. Behold the sun and the cactus javelina
carve--the sap, white as a field of cement, thirsty like the men we hang
under the stairway of history. We are more than lungs, what passes does
not cease, what ceases returns and returns to open again, our gate--
there is no end but subtraction. One room closes like a hand and throbs
in the wall of another. The meeting. Our flesh with its division--houses
the scripture we devour--uncovers
the hours that are rope in a well, a length through darkness in the
instant--the daily insistence in lifting cold water to our faces. This
is the satisfaction of comets
in orbit across the night. The things we need are accidents, proposed in
the fuel of memory-rest in the teeth of the Lord. By simple finitude our
lives continue, despite the madness
we still savor what the body carries, the lace and clay marriage of
colored lights. 
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Author:Bloomquist, John-Michael
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Poem
Date:Sep 22, 2010
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