Soul is Face, Black is Red

Soul is Face, Black is Red

(“If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.” 1 John 1:9)

Sometimes the wind turns offshore and insists
on another whiff of trails I have left behind me.
Another note I played half flat, another name I forgot,
and more than that, could not remember the connection
we certainly once had.

Sometimes the circuits are crowded and
emails are never answered. I wished for days,
hoped for weeks, waited for months, now despair
over the years that my misspoken and slippery tongue
cannot be forgiven by the one who misheard my intention.
(I do not blame your hearing; it is my speak that
shorted out like a light switch with the wiring worn away.)

I have heard the words from men over the phone,
no tears, no cracks in the armor of their voice,
only the admission they couldn’t break the sickness
until they sent apologies. (Never mind my wounds
and splinter bed, or tears spread everywhere I thought
about the next blast of angry flame. I forgave,
nevertheless, though, as I’ve said, I wished you hadn’t
continued to blame me for days, weeks and months after
you called so you could recover from your cold.)

My old soul is black from its youth,
my thoughts are intractable,
my actions driven and drunk from
the impulses that only serve to break my boredom.

My face is red from effort and embarrassment,
and my feet slide upon the incline littered with
lava’s gravel; my pace is unknown.

I am open, having stolen words from poets;
I am guilty, having spoken lies to prophets;
I am filthy, having broken vows to comrades:
I am captive, having pursued praise from patrons.

I am free, completely above the inactive plains
of stone-cold lava flow. I am clean, entirely within
the passion and pains of momentary composition.

The river is sweeter than the peak I pretended to conquer,
and the pretence that nearly conquered me.