Bartered Sins
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Betrayed by grapes,
we know the blood stain on the vine.
I am white bread hanging from the dross,
a sympathetic cross.
The bartered sins of martyrs
fold in sackcloth lies,
and shining flies infect
their ethics.
I'll confess to anything when pressed,
the heresy of cups.
Cianti wounds drip on the floor.
We taste them though sandals
with our soles.
Karen Tellefsen
kat2@mindspring.com