you'll flay my skin and leave me the bone
and my contrition will be some version of missionary soup--
enough to feed any wayward traveler or starving wandering group--
will these bones warble like some well-fed pigeon on a stone
who left in droppings my passed sins when I'm done?
O blessings indeed--my stuttering cry will be grace--
and no one like me will again attend the place--
Content (c) 2008-2011 Philip Milito.
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