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His hands are black and
cold dipping under the mountains.
His son’s head is the
stone, cheeks are volcanoes
and the words are
like fire, but not
fire. “You are not afraid.”
The clouds are more words
and bravery is ash, heaven is
the sky and rain is
something sweet and St. Jean
writing on the sky, an inferno
of earth on top
of what we have called stars.

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