the dead divine on evident,
on legs stiffening to bole-
whether made the ripples relevant,
but on given days, at any rate,
the ways we all will go-

some will glean a leavening,
well a lightness now in bone-
where God’s left claw stalls the season,
where God’s left light
has shone

on black bouquets in the body’s crooks,
the flowers terminating truss;
the plaintive voice the body brooks,
the voice, the dwindled gust

sloughing coarsely down through boughs
to seek God hidden in the boles;
for strength that it might finally trow, now,
in His starpoint for the soul.

and i am now the kind,
you see, God gave my stomach a new gill;
he made my head a withered bulb in kind
it seems, till my mother’s voice rang shrill

and her yellow fingers played the prayers
for the decades at her neck;
and begged me do the same, a flare
for while I’m able to draw breath.

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