I looked beyond the glassy fever
and awful mirror into the frail
burnt offering. She moved over
the soiled earth like a soft veil
of dark clouds imbued with disease.
I looked beyond the ancient healer
to find the deep, terrible crease
of time. She moved like an unreal
prophet, the prayer we all suffer
despite tradition. I am impure
and have no scripture to offer
that might present a final cure.
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