Flannery O’Connor

Limber limbs
reach for Himalayan
pink salt blocks
stuck in the mouth

Cynical Saint
with all the loam collected
cultivating forms of
browned lace
trampled with boot prints

delicate designers
we take your contentious
credence, oaths to
anchor us to the loam

slouching towards Babylon
to be offered grace

Oh, we make
much of our own suffering,
it’s our fault, it’s my fault

we make mountains of
our suffering, the weight
of the anchor, of the spirit

Forget your blessings
they’ve forgotten you

Don’t give me
the choice, Baby
I will always choose

the fall


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