A dead mouse south
of the Caspian sea- blood
red sea and no peace between
where the headless mock
the Christ with song (where
are your saints now; buried
beneath the places where
the paint cracks?) and where
the phoenix births
a dove called Shahada in the
morning, and Memento Mori
once Friday fades black.
Catch water in your
color-carved jar and close
your fingers on your
flute, weave tight the lid
on your jar of holy men.
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