can you speak of what
you believe with recycled words as
though words were water
flushed down urinals,
agitated in mechanics’ greasy rinse cycles,
spewed at high pressure into slimy New York streets,
mixed unmercifully into compost scunge and
sprayed across the lawn;
evaporated, rarified into purest form,
ascended, Christ-like, imbued with all our sin,
taken to Heaven,
purified to rain like
snow,
to ennoble brown October grass,
dressing each mundane blade in raiment
fit for a king,
encrusting the common, the ugly, the unspeakable
in temporary diamonds and fleeting jewels–
can words, like glistening frost in October morning sunlight,
hold the molten iron of what you believe?

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