ONE RIBBENTROPP
SISTER
This bleak December, make my cloth
of gold and weave only angels into my
seams. Please, I ask this. My hands
are so tired, and they have lost all direction,
as I cannot even think what to command of
them. Let me take down the pleasure pilot,
lower the gas flame, and walk away sullenly
brooding. Only this once, I can claim, have I
managed now to beat salvation at its very
own game. I have become a hardened
hammer in the sin of this world. You
have sewn my flag - I hold it now,
unfurled. This bleak December,
make my cloth of gold (and
I will not be cold).
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