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Poetry: Painting the steeple
July 29, 2018
Chime’s shroud.
Veil’s net.
Christ’s covering.
Let the chips drop
where they fall.
Inside the steeple’s
dress. And the men
on their scaffolding
no one calls
a cross. Heart-
stopping
and curious,
isn’t it?
This black
mask
meant to hold
the dust
in. To catch
the street’s
attention.
Gary Margolis, Cornwall
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