There’s no Jesus on the page.No church or priest or wafer.He’s a dark figure. An inkycharacter he is, that Jesus.Here there’s no ink for him.These are not holy wordsand this is no evangelistic sermon.It’s no polemic. This poem’s plain,as plain as rain and oil and wine.It may speak of a rough-cut slab,but there’s no altar and no wood.There’s no ram or holocaust.The writing’s black markslike smudges on a linen clothunder a kind and lambent light.
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