September 15, 2015

The First Altar

Everything about me heals more slowly—
Rough are my walls of clay
To my own labored swipe of palm;
Their warmth is hesitant breath,
Their rifts, hard shadows’ latch.
Oh pay, pay,
So on my drowsy bones lay
What sensation of renewal may size and buy!
And when I am like an elemental wrought
To span the distance of his realm,
How green an earth would I myself guard,
How soft the closure of its lapis dome.
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