Before the Temple


Howbeit the hair of his head began to grow again after he was shaven.
-Judges 17:22

My hands,
fettered in bronze,
turn the blind
circle of bread.

All night it grows —

There is no dawn
but the circle:
sweating through stubble
to raven locks set
down with silence
and silent prayers.

Humble now,
tied in memory strings
of stolen time, of heroism
turned to murder,

when they call me
I will be twice-found.

Modest amusement,
gripped by a small hand,
I will whisper:

I am the jawbone
turned to grist

die with me.

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