here's one i did a few years ago (looking at it now, i'd probably chop the last half -- or maybe the whole thing. it's always difficult to look at old poetry - not because it is worse than what i'm currently writing, but because in it i see more clearly the ways in which my current writing sucks):
how long, o lord, will i shake with indecision?
how long, o lord, will my wet skin crawl with shingles?
how long will my eyelight stain and shutter?
￼how long will my mewly-mind mutter? and my senses bleet?
how long, o lord, will i be blue to you in a snowbank?
how long will my paper lips rasp against strangeness?
or my brittle pulse beat in fits and stutters?
the Wolf came to cuddle your darlings:
his teeth caressed the feet of your dear ones
and closed around the throats of your lambs.
but you broke the teeth of the lion, lord.
the young wolf you ripped to tiny pieces.
the hyena you reduced to a pith.
you carry home all your scattered
and your darlings are not so distant.
i will sing with the lips of the happy,
and shout with the crash of the throng:
my god is a flame that remembers his ashes,
and redeems all his embers at dawn.
i will rise with the morning
and shake off the night with its longing.
he washes the mud from my blood-laced feet.
has there ever been one like my father?
has there ever been another beside him?
his face shines softly on those who seek him.
his Voice is a life-gushing river.