De Clementia: Prayer of the Last Prizefighter

Let rain soften stone. Small god of the sea
glass, imp of riverbanks and everyweather,

give back to the sand this knuckle-shrapnel
and the hand that rattles like a snake’s tail


with its loose shards of bone. Let the star
whose dead light leans against me be my last


enemy: may my opposition be
as phantom as the shaft of its cold beam,


collapsible as ash is to the touch.
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