Vidui--first take

Normally, Jews confess to noone, everyone, or themselves.

Craft beer cans bobbing in the shallows.

A pair of ducks paddling by

practicing a kind of funeral rites--vidui.

Overhead, the sky crumbles

soft end of summer rain.

Broken glass, tar,

scuffed boats racked

by an overpass.

Across the water a family runs

along the bank in the approaching dusk.

A small child with a yellow hood pulled up

turns back to make sure

they are still there.

Orpheus. Like any of us

preparation of the body means

fasting, tearing, slowing,

closing, turning.

The crumpled poem “forest” floats on the surface

of that dirty water, silently unfolds,

and sinks.

Evening light, apartment complexes

at the edge, horns in smoke,

a shifting stain of starlings on the sky.

Turning means

a fresh start but it also means nothing.

You cannot know that towards which you turn--

fall with its lush decay

winter with its numb song

spring with all its sun tidings

or simply back to summer, home again

(different from before)

        (noone, everyone, yourself)

as the gates close!

The sun sets,

the world alights 

as all things end.

Confess 

your wateriness,

your weakness,

your loam--

noone is watching but you.
Do not be scared to be forgiven.