Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Pope Celestine

his flames lick the high ceilings

of my teenage years.

eyes shine out in the dark. he says

they are just as icy as his father’s.

he is ashamed. the plastic that

seals the windows ripples in the wind.

his birthday is in the coldest month.

my hands shake and I can hardly

light the candles.

they quiver. he will always be

a dove shuddering under the bridge.

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