Forgiveness
What is it, then, for the clouds to open and
let the sun through; too easy, too objective,
waiting for some contrail to cross the blue
and show that there is one idea moving to
another, like a cross-headed screw turned
too tightly into the door shredding dust
out of the conti-board; a chorus which meets
out beyond the lozenges of stained glass
as they parade along the inside of the church,
through which we might have seen the trees
sway and rock, the tide receding, rocks exposed,
a whole new island forgiving us from the shallow water.