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PUBLISHED: May 21, 2015

A steeple repainted with a Star of David,
the street still named for a saint—

I don’t remember half 
the prayers I’ve said, even saying them, 
the words I mumbled, quoting God,

distracted by the person beside me,
swaying into his prayers,
or distracted by the room’s stillness.

Any more is fanaticism,
any less, heresy. Open water 
on one side, the bay on the other,

a beagle leashed to a bench 
yelps for the beach 
as if showing us how it is done. 


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