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Each day she makes herself
more a hermit, loving time alone.
But not an anchorite: no prayers,
only poems. And as the place her heart
had been empties itself so
do the books and bones;
hollow, bare. Still there is life:;
insects, lizards and ghostly birds
which circle closer and closer
and finally alight
singing for Anubis.
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She entered the shell
thinking it a safe place.
But the dark and the roaring
drive her out.
See her fingers scrabbling
for a hold on land,
the ebb sucking her out
and a wave ready to break:
There is no safe place.
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No winners cross this line.
The passion of the moment
anesthetizes us: we ignore
the ripping scales, puncturing spines.
As with saints ecstasy and penance
are one. Only later — part of
healing — do we wonder
what victory might have been.
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Protector, provider:
strong and passionate
he rejoices in being bountiful.
His jeweled hide, scrotum of black pearl,
pizzle a fire-coral corno, Neapolitan,
inspire him to shower me with gifts —
metaphors, manifestations of his pleasure
which runneth over. He enriches me
as he is richly endowed.
In his magnificence he is munificent.
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