Some days it’s easier to listen
than think. The brain gets rooted
in its own pleasures, starts poaching
in the Great Thing’s dream.
I was born to be for ever at odds
with my freedom. I try to choose
things subtle and divine,
but end up honoring the silly moon.
My best dreams huddle like grapes
to the vine. I want the kind of spirit
that heals things, but I always end up
as the stuff that makes a star snap.
Oh, God! How do I convince you
to let my enormous skirmishings
find a way to tremble before Thee?
Regret is such a friendless substance.