she turns her back
a signal to me
to suddenly heed 
silent symbols
formed softly
before clay chipped to flint,
our once-time together 
not futile.
to look at ourselves 
in deadlocked descent,
knowing rollercoasters
go down, and that up's
an illusion of flight, 
so who'd laugh now, 
turning our backs
each yelling silently
"look at me"
answered, by silence
"I won't"
then the thought of you
to remember a time
we assumed
faith, future, hope --
now the oracle's dark
and we've shredded 
the vestments to call it;
I wring damp sacrifice 
before the temple
and it's closed.
Jon Bohrn (1999)



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