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by Michael S. Glaser

  • All evening your fingers traced the length of my arm
  • with such delicate grace the hair there
  • seemed laced in arcs of blue flame.
  • Later, as the sky cracked with the fury
  • of cannon, I woke while lightening
  • lit the shadowy world.
  • You had told me you were Catholic
  • “lapsed at 22″ you had said, but when
  • the thunder cracked again,
  • I cringed, murmured,
  • my God, all we did was talk
  • though looking out the window
  • I remembered other thoughts as I watched
  • the tongue of your Catholic God
  • licking the distant sky.

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