19/Rosary of Summer

& you, Madonna,
sing no longer the seas, air,
but the cyclical tide of wrath
whipping all hearts to scuttle
all forms of mortal wisdom
that never will assuage a moan

You carry the wounded heart
like a stone around your neck
your smile a divine jeer
to all whom childhood’s
clangor of fallen bells:

You refuse all words, all consolation
but what your heart singly wails:
I am the crippled fawn, all poets beware:
My innocence is rock, no one must split hairs:

Child of evening:
whose love is as mysterious as the heart

& as small,

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