The children do not change,
neither the sins visiting and revisiting
Adults watch time play out history
while a creeping icy terror overwhelms
and freezes their hearts
and carves their hearts
until only remains sculpted indifference
Indifference because all these complacent years
have, yes, to this day, brought with them
no difference to mention
no brilliance to mention
Into the moments punctuated with prepubescent laughter
(Sentences that condemn despair to Tartan places)
there the sins thrust themselves
and suddenly we plunge sexuality
into those same Tartan places
into those same blank depths
Why? Because the sex act can be measured
and witnessed; but how can we gauge
the sin act?
Who, in these days with their complacency,
can remember what makes a sin?
or what a sin makes?
Born leprous, a man never knows what boon
he misses in clean, smooth,
untarnished armor of skin.
And ever further, the skin’s reward
of society and fellowship
flakes, falls, decays along with years
Born blind, a woman never understands what miracle
she wants in vivid, turning,
vanishing experience of light and shadow.
And ever darker, the eyes the color
of milk or coal
flash, burn, wink along with stars
that she has not known.