"How can I see right
if the world sees right"
(Frank Samperi)
Alone with the ol' cupful of ossa, the ol' saintly
lacrima of the numb inconsolable, weary you--
who used to pray with beak uplifted, our own
leggy mary but always lamenting the effects of
prayer that lagged, the tight bright dimple, gone!
Of course, what did you expect who clumped
at the cross and the pasty hip (with no arms now
to divide you from the pain of that rigid child,
if they could) and saw that the lips were a plant's
hollow spur, to ward off the bees? Yes, the next
time you go rushing up to see, drippy and dodgy
with sin (like all of us), recall the cup half-bone,
half-tear. Why sad at another of life's passing kinks!
He'll soon be brought down for purpling like you
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