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By Deon Robinson

A night sky forces light from landscape, crushed blackberries molded into geographical

silhouettes. The streetlights hover over us, each illuminating a sunset cracking from a

dragon egg.


The front window weeping with veils of water, I put my hands together, capturing any God

I can within the valley of my naked palms.


Prayer, the art of returning to a God when you need someone to stay alive.


Or maybe it’s just me, maybe I pray to put responsibility in someone else’s clumsy, clumsy


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