Don’t banish it or throw it away—
Patch it with string or floss or twine,

lean it on a trellis made from cast-off
wire hangers or a weathered fence;

feed it the anyway red of new tomatoes
that have straggled up on the vine, the snap

of peas, the sugar hardened into burnt
caramel on the sides of a pan—

And after all it has been through,
poor and tired, crushed by all the beauty,

all that’s terrible, unslakeable love,
you’ll want to take it in your arms

anyway— Lie with it, give yourself
to it, let it sob against your ear

until the hours of grief
and sleeplessness have passed

and morning’s loud clapper
sounds the call, again, to rise—


In response to thus: consubstantiation.

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