A Ruler’s Therapy

Drier nettles char
under tarred sidewalks,

where there lives
a ruler, a pioneer,
with a gutted maw,
yearning to gawk
endlessly, seer the
dough of flesh, veto

the love of two, sewn
into the narcissism of
a god: no, they say,
therapy reaps the heart, but

a rejection of love is rape,
a fired pyre, part of sin.
The amazing conversion
without voice covers it

up all over again, after
spending so much time
rising from the vice, the
violence, the heart, parted.

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