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WHICH OF YOU

Where are you now,
whose mask do you wear?
Behind the door marked with lambís blood
we waited for God.

God was outside
or Nothing, we didnít know.
I was frightened. You held me.
I am sure it was you
sure it was me.

If I pass you on the street tomorrow,
a flicker of recognition will cross
between us like a candle —
that is all.

      — Martha O'Connor