Given the consequences
of instinct, the insistence of flesh
to wound or heal, what we are made of,
the pattern of our dreams-
who can hold us accountable?
O to be darkness and hate darkness
or shy stars who know their deaths
are matters of chance and fortune,
shine or blacken habitually.
O what are contrite hearts
compared to ambition?
Whatever is, whatever was,
even God, certain of His beauty
remains as lovely.