Evil I have done
and evil suffered.
The pure of heart are hard to find.
Rain is not enough, nor sun:
to wash or bleach
the ringing cords that from my mind
unto the lock of groaning run –
from which arise
not what is living,
nor has nerves and quick recoil,
only fumes and tattered lies
that fed my choice
when I agreed instead to boil
and patience of my growth despise.
I am not ill;
I am not hard to find.
This itch I do not choose to scratch.
Guilt is not enough, nor pill
the sinews foul
to wrench or melt or disattach.
In light of loves once failed I glimpse my will.
Here I hold my self against the kill.