book of john

          Who, on earth, are we?
    ‘Neath time’s tenacious trim,
Save what we crane to see?

  I’ll near-indeed pass on,
      With no one knowing too-truly
          This rare-spoken John,
  Who too-knowingly turned a word;

Though interred with him
    In finality—maybe, just maybe,
          His pen shouldn’t be.

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