I could lament about Shakespeare or Donne,
Dickinson or Hopkins, or Frost but I will cry
for Tony, Donald, and James.
Who opened and closed worlds
to me.
Who dreamed my dreams
and entered and exited nightmares.
Who made me stop.
And made me go.
Who swim in the ocean of my brain.
Who, without their knowledge,
unlocked, unzipped, and unraveled me and
Jesus became someone I could sit with
and cry with, for a moment
then he would take his molten hot finger
and plunge it into my body
and open all my wounds;
even healing some of them.
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