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By Ian Strever
This, she says, is heaven. A lazy crayon line,
drawn thick and black between earth and sky.
Fountains of trees are spouting from the crest
of each swelled mound, and above their billows,
barn swallows flicker like votives, glinting prayers
from the open books, their wings.
The stiff elbows of houses shore up the ravines;
under their jackets, they shelter ear-wide smiles.
Where is God? I ask, and she points to the grinning sun,
a great yellow porcupine in the sky.
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Document last modified on: 12/09/2006