Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsSpring 2012 v11n1
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[So long on Tantrum now]

So long on Tantrum now distinction suffers.
      The winding of the wind, the drag
of sun against the puny fleet, and nothing
      left to spare its use to you, Crusoe,
the trophy of another day or year, the last
      one counted, bower by bower.
Graffito, what’s left of the rosemary’s stark
      towers, what’s left of mint, picked to
finish, the winter’s lack of snow yet yielding
      closure, a kind of petulance,
each name owned by every rightful vessel—
      Champion, Angel, Opal, Hero
you, likewise—
      Idol, Misfit, Foundling, Glutton.
The truth is only half your job, the other
      half is you.
So don’t say ashes, say box. Not burn, but
      born-unto. For fire, submit as before:
field. Start over. Instead of years, yards to
      where she’s not laid but laying. Do
not say fire, fiacre rather, pulled through our
      square, flowers nailed to it,
flamen then for flower. Depth for Debt. Please
      then for priest, as in,
Born unto water, I stay to know my depth. I’ll
      own it, yard laying upon yard.
Give, please, peace for this depth I’m born–unto.

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