Bare footed
on the rain-swept pavement
of a city street,
wrapped in heavy, worn clothing
hooded
to save against some of cloud's tears
kneeling
he looks to the middle distance
gathering well-worn hands
silent
in a gesture of prayer.

Who he is, where he came from
I do not know.
Maybe Cyrene.
A poor man with less than nothing
whose darkened image
haunts the heart this early Spring

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