Pietas
You sleep, at last,
your arms turned-out
forced into an act of preacher greeting;
the drip-lines fixed in both your wrists.
A merciful act or crucifixion?I sit, and read
your cradled face; it's water-worn
like a limestone pavement.
I kiss your cheeks, their hollowed caves.
I find some shelter; a resting tomb.
Copyright © Gavin Stewart 1996-2006
Website http://www.gavinstewart.net
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