Slow turning wheels

By dawn she gathers bones into a misshape
The dismembering completes by dusk;
Disregarded by a spirit that flails and scrapes
It’s swatted down to the ground like dust.

Ground there into more minute atoms of self
Assurance and identity degenerate;
Arrange askew, at morn, in tired pursuit of pelf
The better parts abandoned to waste.

It’s not that he is a powerful God
Only, that she is spent in the striving;
But someday in a grand righting of all that’s been wrought
It’s certain; Latent will blaze forth as Living.


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