
Image: KEVIN CARDEN / LIGHTSTOCK.COM
A fire engulfs it, but the bush does not burn. How?
Curiosity, from this pharoa’s son-turned-murder, shepherding fugative. I draw closer.
A presence from the fire, none I’ve known, yet all I’ve ever known, calls my name.
Holy ground
sandals and sheep
set aside
for dverse Poets Pub quadrille #51–burning, hosted by Victoria

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