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A Certain Kind of Holy Men
Not every wino is a Holy Man.
Oh, but some of them are.
I love those who’ve learned
To sit comfortably
For long periods with their hams
Pressed against their calves,
Outdoors,
With a wall for a back-rest,
Contentedly saying nothing.
These move about only when
Necessary,
On foot, and almost always
In pairs.
I think of them as oblates.
Christ’s blood is in their veins
Or they thirst for it.
They have looked into the eyes
Of God,
Unprotected by smoked glass.
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