Jesus, himself,
who seems to have as little to say
as any oracle.

What a foil he is, the one who
spoke in riddles and is not saying
any words to me,

since I live among the rushes
of words, since my bed was made
of rushes and set on the river of words,

since my living rushes
with words.  Will he not speak, then?
Except to sew

his name on my tongue?

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