Wednesday, August 4, 2010

My Hoard

All the Hail Marys
rotting with the refuse in
gutters now strewn
with once holy thoughts.

All the wishes whispered
in night's dark camp
now hanging from limbs
like last season's nest.

All the pocket treasures
buried deep in badger burrows
waiting to sprout
thrift stores of broken marbles
and balls of string.

All these enshrined things
now turned to dust
but you still live in me
inciting sacred lines
and nightly wishes.
You are my pocket treasure
growing tall,
hoarded safely in soft hands.

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