Christ walks the streets of Venice,
has long since become a regular:
but no one sees him,
His pictures are all over.
When He passes by outside,
I see him through the wet dust I smell
on my cloudy panes,
though I've hidden His pictures.
Is it water He walks on?
or does He walk on the water-borne dust?
The streets strewn with ghosts
scream loud but are never heard.
Christ walks the Charleston harbor,
the stones haven't screamed as long.
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For all its troubles the Charleston peninsula is not under water, yet.