Yolk of the world, breaking
over me, sizzling.
The bare bulb behind the stove
softening the whiteness of dawn.
God, I hide my face
from your Holiness. I know.
Besides, I've received
all the guidelines, drawn neat,
and I fall outside.
So I watch Your mountains
tinge pink and green and white
and writhe at
my independent wretchedness.
Isn't this, too
(coffee-soaked confessional of a morning)
Holiness?
No, I'm not boasting of it
What then, shall we sin more?
No, I am just
thankful for
grace and the mountain's graciousness
abounding.
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