Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n2
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[For fury the Penitent may say]

For fury the Penitent may say, My Lord, if discretion
      be the better part of valor then let me
be the screen door, and beyond it, the parade
      rolling forth, heat and wheel, equal
among themselves, a same compressive thing,
      grandeur through the street.
But all things being equal, the heat the wheel—
      and this includes the heart—burn out
break down, what’s left. Not the quiet, it must
      be loud. It must answer to whatever
death by becoming whatever of it—not itself
      but something in the style of light if
light could be its sound, my tonguing like the
      clapper of a bell, its word worn round.
For sleep the Penitent will say, My Lord, make me
      the tributary, the canal, the sluice and its
solutions pouring out, the folio sheet halved and
      folded, the other body next to me, a lathe
turning over. I keep the world up with my
      raggedness. I try to shut the summer down.
I bellowed bead by bead, opaque, mother–
      strand, strung like fish, I did it twice.
O my mother, incorruptible, these words they
      rise to stand outside me, speak
against me like a heart I never recognize or see,
      me—make me the pain fixed to one place.
So For pain the Penitent—My Lord, just so, just so.
      Frontier becomes me and its place,
obediently cold. Glorify the lung, the nose that
      gives to it the pine. The unruly town
inside a forest, now dry. Glorify the eye and salt
      that gives to it the command. The silent
town beside the sea, its blue ebb. Glorify the rule
      that keeps me here which gives the brain
no say. Water in water out. Give me say, let me
      thrive again. O Jesu. O Jesu thou. Give.  

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