Monday, March 3, 2008


Forgive her knee
the skin on ice;
the red of it like cobwebs.

Forgive the snow on waves
and all that sleep below.
Bless all deep sea bloops
recorded at living
larger than any
vocabulary yet.

Forgive the flocks
five hours vast
as they move
north to south
overhead. Forgive
my eyes as they
swallow her tonight.
Say Holy Father forgive
me for I have sinned:
I have held some
one so fragile
in my hands;
for I have desired
mine over ours.

Forgive the winter
words on my lips when
we, walking too fast
down the hill, ignored
the man whose
wife tried to kill
him. Whatever
you are looking for
sleeps underground.

She tumbled down
Taaffe and her knee--
the skin on ice,
the red like cobwebs;
seeping like the secrets
in a parent's attic.
The clocks forgive
and daylight will forgive
as it peels back into
my room. I will
wake coated sweetly
in sweat and his pillow
next to mine, her coat
on the floor. His breath
hot in my ear:
Maybe nothing
ever happens
once and is finished.

Her knee, the cobbled
steps up the park, the
sun in his eyes, the
view from the pier, the
statue pointed west
and we followed.
The walk was too long,
the day ended quick.
Night tucked us in
and we forgave who
we became.
We hid hands in our
coats and still we were
caught and sat on that
bench in the station
feeling shame. Saying
Holy Father please
forgive us for we were
born and we breathe
and our days are spent
dying, and our days
are spent rowing against
the tide, and we rebel, Father,
because you will let
the waves consume us.