Can a person atone for pure bewilderment?
For hyperbole? for being wrong
In a thousand categorical opinions?
For never opening her mouth, except too soon?
For ignoring, all week long, the waning moon
Retreating from its haunt above the local canyons,
Signaling her season to repent,
Then deflecting her repentance with a song?
Because the rest is just too difficult to face —
What we are — I mean — in all its meagerness—
The way we stint on any modicum of kindness —
What we allow ourselves—what we don’t learn—
How each lapsed, unchanging year resigns us—
Return us, Lord, to you, and we’ll return.