For John* The windows of the world are milked over with the handprints of small men's delights, of jelly, peanut butter, religion, government, money, misery, desire, whatever.
Where sun once sliced through clear panes, the morning knives cut rays to stones, ours is an autumn of only dull, diffused days, all leaf lines melding.
Where are the men among the people, yes, the people coming a'washing with human poems, with prophetic baptismal flannel rags, wiping smears clean with elbow grease, imagination?
The men among the people, yes, the people they are here, alive, fleshy, and quiet as an Aspen's turning, cleaning the doorway
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