Pater Peccavi

Peccavi. Forgive not the flavid afterbloom of my sins

as blue as forget-me-nots. I am not the one who breathed
the wind into my breast, not the one who beat

my battered heart to death. What else, what else could I do
if I flared like sempiternal light? Would I only knock
some sense to your damned skull, and you would open

your mouth and teach me, saying: I am not the one

who said I had a name, not the one who kneaded flesh

to leavened bread, who came immaculately, and filled

the sky with clocks to keep the pulse of pre-eternal time.