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It is touchingly strange

the way I manage this dust.

I am just a maid cleaning out the temple:

stepping barefooted

on cold gray marble;

but now I’m breathing in the incense

as God breathes.

Inter-mingling curls of gray;

my sweat drips down –

makes dirt of the dust

and the smoke-filled words

stretch with longing,

lift upwards and through the

thin veil

becoming part of

another.

The fragrance in the You

has become

the fragrance in the Me;

making twins of

lungs, heart, soul

down to the cell work

(just sweeping work)

managing dust.