Forgive my silence.

Forgive the middle parts, the lost ones.

Forgive the times I slept. I am sleeping now. Forgive me all the dreams.

Forgive the times I powered up a device instead of remembering.

Forgive what little remembering I’ve done.

Forgive my blindness; seeing

I have not thought nearly enough about those about to die. For this I ask forgiveness.

I have not believed enough in feet on the ground. I have not believed enough in grounds. For this I ask forgiveness.

I once believed there was more than there is now. I no longer do. For that I ask forgiveness.

I sometimes think of the dead walking through an empty field wearing coats. I imagine fog and a sky like pumice. For that I do not deserve forgiveness.

Forgive me the times, many, in the car alone, I do not think of ________.

Forgive me the times, many, when I am the only one awake in the house and I do not think of any heart but my own.

Forgive me for not knowing more of my heart.

For the times I have thought about you strapped to a chair in front of a plate of bones, I now ask forgiveness.

For the times I have wondered if things might be better if there was more ________, I ask forgiveness.

For the times I have neither sought nor wanted forgiveness, I remain ambivalent about forgiveness.

For the times I wanted the night sky on my skin alone I ask forgiveness.

For the times in the future when I should ask for forgiveness, I ask in advance for what I will not seek.

For the lies, many, I will tell my sons, I may or may not ask forgiveness.

When I speak to you next, will it be to ask for your forgiveness?

When the next shot is fired and I think about Kara Walker or my sons sleeping in the next room or Michael Kiwanuka or how glad it was not fired at my wife, am I to be forgiven?

When I began this poem, I thought it would mean something. For that I ask forgiveness.

Sometimes I feel as though hundreds of tiny birds live in my fingers. Forgive my vanity.

For the times I have not forgiven you, many, I ask forgiveness.

I have no idea if there is blood on my hands, for that I also seek forgiveness.

For the truths I will reluctantly tell my sons, many, I may or may not ask forgiveness.

For my mouth of snow I ask forgiveness.

What is too much sorrow? I may have it. Do I ask forgiveness?

What is the right amount of selflessness? I do not have it. Do I ask forgiveness?

What is the answer to the question have you lived? I do not know. Do I ask forgiveness?

People are being shot in the street in the fields in prison. I am thinking very hard about them but also about my league championship basketball game on Wednesday. Do I ask forgiveness?

The world is a sponge of suffering, and yet, by comparison I am spared. Do I ask forgiveness?

My son who brought home two small guns he made in woodworking class is 10. Who do we forgive?

Men are hanging by their necks under bridges in Mexico. Who do we forgive?

My son told me last night he is sometimes scared of the homeless men we see near our bakery. Who do we forgive?

I believe if something happens to my sons I will not forgive? Shall I be forgiven?

There are things I will not name here for which I should seek forgiveness. Shall I be forgiven?

I have lied to the people I love the most. To you. I will do this again. Shall I be forgiven?

It is very likely I would rather you die than me. For this, I do not ask for forgiveness.

The dead are at

my door again

like an ocean

without wave

or curve

without

the bullet holes

of the moon

It is the time

of the night

when the ghosts

arrive in their

little wagons

of bone

do they come

in search of

the not-yet-

forgotten

or do they

only seek

stillness

in the wake

of the nearly

remembered

what does

it matter

here in the

fire of the

shall never be?

I.

Day before Easter,

       day after sacrifice:

On a screen I watch a church burn,

                                       read of bombings in Ukraine,

overdoses and evictions. Suicides.

Above the bay,

  the sun a bolus in the sky’s mouth.

Right now,

        the entire city seems to be stretched on a cross.

My wife and sons are asleep,

and I am thinking about transformation.

What is the end before it is the end?

What could I change into?

What would the world need to resurrect?

II.

There comes a time in one’s life when one wants Time

to relax a little,

 take off its shoes,

kick back and have a beer,

        maybe talk about Steph Curry and the Warriors.

Basketball is a good metaphor for our lives:

the up and down,

the fouls, the ticking clock.

       The numinous blows its whistle every time I touch the ball.

The crowd chants to take me out of the game.

My griefs,

    lined up like a row of candles,

glow in their gold on the bench.

III.

Easter morning,

  and I appear not to have risen from my body—

Here I am in this country

                                        like air in the earth.

The sky this dawn blank as a cracked egg.

The great bunny of sorrow hops once more down Dolores Street.

If you put out a plate of carrots,

              she will leave you a full basket.

You can carry it with you

     up the steep hill of this life—

it will never lighten.