Motel
These are the outskirts, the city’s beach
and we the driftwood on its shore.
Out in the night traffic booms, recedes
and fades like waves. And that’s why
Christ moved in and lives,
not in the tidy Gideon Bibles
but by the pool that’s closed
for winter, and in empty rooms,
the closed reception, by single beds
in the suicide times, as the tide
withdraws like a tolled bell.
Page(s) 31
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