POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
I will have
Ashes,
Dust in my hair,
Crushes of hoofs.
Your name
Fills the mouth
Of rich man and poor.
Women bring
Armfuls of flowers
And throw on you.
I go hungry
Down in dreams
And loneliness,
Across the rain
To slashed hills
Where men wait and hope for me.
OUR PRAYER OF THANKS
God,
For the gladness here where the sun is shining at evening on the weeds at the river,
Our prayer of thanks.
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