Sleep falls hard under woolen blankets. The day not cradled by a temporary small steel cot. So much to set down, people to write. The Creator finally is turned to in weariness. Your breath? Oh yes, you feel it now. There is that still black before the dream. Colors so vivid, Lake Erie at dawn. Brightly reflective. Crystal clear. As your right hand falls from the side of your bunk your fingers dip into the rising water. —Elizabeth Marino, Chicago
AS REV. PINKNEY DREAMS
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