You came twisting into sight
like a world in miniature—
dark and warm and smelling
of some distant sea. Howl,
howl, distempered heart! Howl
to God and hail to God
in violent Christophany.
Teach your servant to repent—
he knows not how—teach
him to be contrite. Teach
him how to live, broken-hearted,
rejoicing, in lenten jubilee.
Behind all acts, the actor, thou—
teach your servant to repent.
He knows not why, nor how.
You drifted out, away from
sight—giddy grieving garishly—
a room writ large, a wayward
cosmonaut. You are the ghost
that haunts the dawn. You are
the stillness of the clock
in the violence of Christophany.
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