My grandfather, in a bib and tucker,/ says grace, to expel/the Deus and the demon within me./The vault in the altar /holds cold bones that once burned ,/and when it snows,/we watch from the market/our rooftop rubbed raw by rain./Obliged, inching a way to freedom,/ we answered duty seldom. Result: a descent, in mortal light ,/to examine our lifetimes, /bound up in sheets; interred,/we catch ourselves gloat
Sunday Dinner
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Poetry in Motion 