That Mood Again

*

I’m dead, but needn’t say so
so sleight the hand
sleight of hand
sleight of His most grievous hand
eyes that meet mine never know

*

Pry the purpose out
Is that a Clock?
No, that’s a Cross.
Yes, that’s a Clock.

Sweet wave of Christ wash over me,
these sad sack bones, this sun-cracked rock

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