Left on the doormat of the church,
the infant slept, wrapped and rocking,
looking past eyelids at pictures unchained
by the language of yes and no, the belief
of the possibility of the real, through
the rain soaked night, dreaming one
thousand dreams, each completely full,
undefined, the blanket holding water
better than warmth. Come daybreak,
the parishioners found it there, cold
and still, eyes closed, smiling.

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