Catapult

It's hard to stop
the catapalt towards mercy.
Would I be inconsequential
if I were sin-less?

While the spirit knows
who is responsible for grief,
I have forgotten history,
the root, the seed, buried

beneath the symbols.

Of blood and nerves,
I laughed, I danced, listened
to the red-bird singing from
such a distance like blood

leaking from its deep incision.

Now I lie in waiting,
the peace of sky, the rippling
blue-painted pool of ocean creasing
like a worried brow; and I am

solitary, ceaseless,
lifelong dreaming

of being born again.