The Wound
The tenth day, and they givemy mirror back.
Who knowshow to drink pain, and live?
I look, and the glass showsthe truth, fine as a hair,of the scalpel's wounding care.
A round reproach to allthat's warped, uncertain, clouded,the sun climbs.
On the wall,by the racked body shroudedin pain, is a shadow thrown;simple, unchanged, my own.
Body, on whom the claimsof spirit fall to inspireand terrify, there flamesat your least breath a fireof anguish, not for this pain,but that scars will remain.
You will be loved no less.
Spirit can build, make shiftwith what there is, and presspain to its mould; will liftfrom your crucible of nighta form dripping with light.
Felix culpa.
The sunlights in my flesh the greatwound of the world.
What's doneis done.
In man's estatelet my flawed wholeness provethe art and scope of love.
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