Confessional

 

Today I went to the confessional

Of my own heart; it can't forgive, it says,

This injury, the sharp unquiet phase

Of weak life I have brought; it cannot lull

Remembrance, cannot offer magical

Ablution for a sin which keeps ablaze

Its consciousness of petty, perverse ways,

Which goads the gnawing worm within the skull.

 

What have I done? Despite this mock regret,

The innocence of the wild earth-desire

Breaks through this last confession, conquering strife:

The heart which still refuses to forget

Still feels aright; no sacrificial fire

Could purify the deed that builds its life.

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