a distant nearness

sometimes things that appear to have died
are merely sleeping, resting their eyes –
waiting for omens, or portents, or signs
or the heavy belief of prayers left at shrines
to saints who are nameless (for names are too proud,
and you want to blend in to the bellowing crowd,
not utter your awkwardness, broadcast aloud).
and all the while you ask yourself, “how’d
the saints get holy anyway?” it wasn’t the plan
when their palms bled before the sun began
to gather supplicants like a ragtag clan
of brown-eyed kids, their skins all tan
and freckled from our nearest star.
and this is where i think we are
watching each other, eyes tight like a scar
distant by miles with our nearness far.

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