The sepulchre
The sepulchre and the white
Observing the shroud
linen have yielded me
Observing the summer grass
In vain were the nails driven through my
hands, and my head my
hand mocked with a
I remember
I am here after my
crucifixion and my
bloody coronation
The I remember the mockers and
[up the side of the paper] the buffeting insults
I am just as alive—

New York and San
Francisco, after two thousand
Again I tread the streets after
two thousand years


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