city on a hill

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
find yer holy spirit

Submitted: May 21, 2013

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Submitted: May 21, 2013




the irony of Providence

is that i live there

or that anyone does

or that christ is a mapless twicefound spot, hanging

apparently right above your head.

and the Noose God oh

could save just about anyone i guess

as long as panic paints with a meaner fume

and cars crank loose our boney exhaust

and garbage shimmers in the water like slow fish,

everyone might get off.

it's not our fault the city has liars

more than home.

how we got here anyway,

there being no highway to take you

or vision produced at the height of our hysteria,

is hard to figure.

i could be a false witnessbut


with foresightful care

our cellophane is peeled back,

we are fixed onto a bit of earth

and his narrowing face bares us teeth.

so are we devils;

should i fear the godly smiles on every mongrel creep

tottering towards- or maybe from,


not to anywhere

just through

© Copyright 2019 Caroline Michaud. All rights reserved.

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