Up ahead
past the patch of asters
and the double-nested pine
the body has its own designs
Like a willful child
or a petulant bride
there is little room for prayer
Against a rainless sky,
not a cloud or wing
or any glad distraction
The cartoon heart,
like a muscle,
so easily sprained
by simple truths
Under January’s cobalt glare
razor-sharp and godly,
such a tight-lipped
peaceful terror
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