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He lives on the streets like a body of steam, 
cozy on the pipes, pinning the repellent of poverty 
on the church stairs. 
Sorely leaving his cooped up spot, 
he captures a drop of moisture from the high rises. 
His church bells ring on the 
base of his metal sphere-filled drinking cup. 
His tongue speaks like a preacher, 
but he burrows like a devil hound, 
fearing the righteous acts mellowing 
his addictive additions. 
“Let me give you my life,” 
spitting his teeth in ritualistic 
beatings for his modest keep, 
whiting out his vision; 
visions of God. 

He says my name 
to tidy his book 
on good and evil. 

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