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Broken Bread

Broken Bread

I can’t see the path.
My sight is twisted.

I scrabble with bare hands,

If Jesus Came to Dance

If Jesus came to dance,
what would the Buddha say?
Could we be saved by the sound of
shuffling feet?


My fountain burbles,
and Klemmer’s sweet sax
sings me to sleep.


Ah, morning at the office.
Nothing like the fresh aroma of burnt coffee.


We were lovers long ago,
I remember her face in the morning.
A jigsaw of fine lines,
her dayface dissolved in the pillowcase.