On my knees, earnestly confessing…
it seems I lost my train of thought
and then I realize: no,
it was stolen—not by the devil
but by the Beloved, who runs off,
I return to my confession but I am
interrupted by a bird on the windowsill,
singing beautifully to me. To me.
In the tight fist of my confession
I glimpse the secret: not shame
but a great loneliness.
I dare not open its hand.
But it opens.
Sometimes I feel I am winding sheets,
grave clothes tangling the Lazarus inside me,
trying to keep him down,
but he hears,
and he rises.
September 30, 2021