My professor says maybe it will take some time before the name of Jesus
rings a bell, says He will be a beacon but it’s going to take a dark room to see Him;
is she wishing this darkness upon us, is what I want to know — how big is the real
world, Professor, how grimy the corners? How to weigh dignity and hand it out
in those filmy plastic bags I used to eat school spaghetti out of, with my hands?
Where to put these hands, Professor? Tell me all about the poor and the meek,
tell me I have been born, I am suffering; tell me I am dead. Tell me I’ll rise again,
but some other time; the bell is tolling and night is pressing against the door.

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