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Poetry by Michael Borich from Immanuel

from Immanuel xxiii Mud-splotched, chiggered, thorn-matted hair and beard, naked, a scurried, spidery- crawl on all fours, snarls, bellows, less human the more they heard: the man squatted atop a summit of scree and howled. Jesus disembarked the boat; his disciples stayed. Vine-webbed cave tombs of the Gadarenes loomed as home. Jesus held out his hand. The man wailed, flung stones, sun-caked feces. Don't torture me, Son of the Most High. Eyes rolled back white, his mouth foamed. Rusted manacles…
Michael Borich
November 16, 2005