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ISSUE:  Summer 2010
A young boy stands in the doorway to a house, playing trumpet, its bell pointed triumphantly towards the sky. He smiles slyly and looks straight at the camera.


This song came from me—
my breath formed this sound,
full of groove and hope,

my breath pushed up
against the shadows
and made light
bright as a horn.

My breath will make you
remember the coffin.

My breath will make you
remember the laughter.

My breath will make you
remember Jesus.

My breath will make you
dance, dance, dance, dance.

My breath will make something
that my hands have not made.

My breath will blow
a blues that will make you smile
through the tears.


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