DiaBLOGue

Guilt

I have no vulture sins, God,That overhang my sky, To climb, grey-feathering the air,And swoop carnivorously.  It’s just the tiny sins, God, That from memory appear Like tedious buzzing flies to dartLike static through my prayer. 

Death

Death is the great forget, they said,A mindless, restful leaving Of all consciousness and careIn a vast unweaving.  And so I waited, cramped and still,For approaching Death to bringForgetfulness—but all he broughtWas a huge remembering.