upon you
in glistering sheets
like the Word from Heaven
the bushes burn every evening
before night comes
--they speak the fiery proscriptions
of the dying sun
the exegesis and apologia
of shadow caught in their branches
sliding from your shoulders
your feet mark the flood-line
--the light on your face warns
that you may be drowning
--but I felt the first of the rains
prickle my forearms
I smell the mountains in the air
--give me a God like a mountain
and I will worship it with my lungs
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