Poem from:

Lit from Below by Terence Winch

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The Sacrifice

Winch, Terence

The crowd exploded.  The room cheered.

The moon made its rulings stick.  The stick

struck against the necessity of  argument.

The argument held the impossibility of salvation

outside the delights of the great forest of  long hair.

My wife and I danced on a stack of fresh tortillas.

We moved on to the river of supply boats and obscene

counter attacks in new underwear and clothing.

False articles of faith fogged the new dawn.

Survivors dumped the headline on the dark lawn.

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