she swings like a pomegranite,
inside me
pushing grit
and saved from
falling rivers
at three in the morning
while withdrawn
mysteries matter unto themselves
Such miraculous beauty abounds
cradled in the deepest prayer
a wonder, an answer, my wishing well coin
Sitting with the Sunday cherub of penance,
and shame, and consequence.
I am not sorry.
Sin sitting like a sun
cutting my tongue
babbling.
Disdain, disgust,
hiding from memory
forming into corners of silent mouths
Paste-up or perceiving
Twitching reaction stilled by
another
Now is not for disappearing.
I sing down to her.
I delight in her touch.
I am blessed.
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