Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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[When gluttony is less than ruinous]

When gluttony is less than ruinous we
      give it milder claim. Never
was there enough of what we wanted.
      We named this Comfort, we
saw our fame inside a statue carried by
      its juggernaut. Never were you
crushed so as you were on that day let
      me tell you, it was far beyond
what you say so far, here, so far out on
      this little cape you call
      You do not even, as once
you would, go low tide out to take some
      clams, go past the cove–lot to
the lower appendix of there where you
      could walk and have your fill
far shamelessly. Indoors, there’s a box
      with your x–actos, each one
rounder than the first, sister of the next,
      not what you think. It reads:
faith slips and laughs and rallies, that
      is what the little saw is for,
the plane, the red–handled exactness of
      the wish for world beyond flat
      You go to sleep tonight to dream
the little wooden box, your father with the
      kit’s own forceps, wishbone
widening your mouth, urging it down—
      Knock it off. Quit it. Cut it out.  

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