In the juvenile morning, over morning breath;
She asks, “Well, what was that? Was that sex?”
She checks her bible and I reach over our mess
For the dictionary by the bed.
“Your definition? Sex or accident?” She flicks
Through her New Testament
To confess, “I’m agnostic.”
While we wait for the morning mist to clear
I say, “You may make your mistakes with me.”
In the waiting room, with the faithful invalids
I wait for health and the doctor to call,
To click her definite heels down the corridor.
Am I sick or am I well?
She shuffles symptoms, fans them in her hands
And takes a gamble.
Do not fret doctor, I am simple.
My belief is limp. No need to convince me with your career;
You may make your mistakes with me.
At Five the patrons leave the art gallery stark
And empty. The paintings readjust their layers
Fold in their meanings, say their prayers
And contemplate one another across the dark hall.
And they call,
“I do not understand.”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you mean anything at all?”
And one painting opens to the limits of his frame
“I’m here, make your mistakes with me.”
With my dictionary held between ribs and elbow
I am presented to a Bible study.
Allan is the most uncertain person I know.
My dictionary a pious blue, a sacred weight, with certain columns.
Uncertainty is a regular state, for me.
They tell me to explain love. I turn to “L”
I consider a man who looked down from his column
And said, “Have peace you can make your mistakes with me.”