Sure as she’s a Catholic she’s sure
of herself. I’m sure my life is
fraying like shoestrings minus aglet except you
wear shoes that slide or buckle. There’s nothing
I’m sure I wouldn’t do. Sure, you’re beautiful,
but that’s not it. Isn’t it? Your guilt runs over
There’s enough to cobble gods with
plenty left over for a hair shirt or two. Lie
down in green plaid skirts; draw a bath
of still water. Then forgive me—do you
have that power? If I could ever forgive myself
I wouldn’t.
