My Time

A corpse in the road to Judah.
A seated lion and a yawning ass.
The locusts chant one systole a minute
and I thirst.  Too long, and trust won’t do;
I need the Holy Ghost.
As men mark time I shouldn’t mark,  I’m told,
but martyred souls enjamb the very Throne
with metered stops.   The dead do count.
The dead are authorized to count.

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