Were we to speak in binary code
perhaps we would be what we think:
the robot, the puppet, Calvin’s clown and Eliot’s straw man.
But story, mystery
endures, secures where numbers battery,
cold, unrecyclable graphite tools its way to the bin.
He spoke beyond binary opening to an end
where His brother found another way home.
Story, mystery and
paradox lead the way to revolution
bloody change on Sunday
or any other day for that matter
Palm Sunday, communion, afikomen: the geld,
silver returned and hung by the neck
At last the story, the mystery, leaves in leather, and gilded edged history
fades into history- a barking dog across the street fear or flight
a saxophone spiraling down genetic code and fitted parts
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