Читать книгу Psalms for the Poor - Kent Gramm - Страница 12

O Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger

These bones are nothing—human bones are leaves

in waxed paper—but I am stuck in them;

I am my veins, my thoughts are smeared on them:

where does love begin and my corpus end?

You are the beginning of the end. You

are what I am not and are what I am

and on the page you say you are I AM.

My heart is paper, a veined pressed leaf

that lies on the sea of salt where it fell.

For I have sinned and am a fool, alone

in an old ocean, lost, at home on bones,

becoming comfortable with myself:

as far as anyone knows, good in bed—

the satin one, where you stay when you’re dead.