Sweet, broken, dead Jesus

Sweet, broken, dead Jesus,
do you still feel the pain?
Do your wounds still bleed?
Do the angels hover close by
to prop you up when you faint?

Sweet wounded Jesus,
the morning, the dawn,
the first rays of Sunday morning,
the stirring, the walking away –
touch me before you go.
Touch me.


    • Yes, I have been a Ferlinghetti fan for a very long time. That’s a hard, strong poem, perhaps a little more bleak than I would want to go, but I feel it. I adored the Beats. Probably read too much of them, but Victorian literature bored me to tears.

      Liked by 1 person

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