God: A Sinner

If you'd count syllables any day,
any day I'd count, name tiredly
the stars: Pegasus. Orion. Procyon
and Procyon: which have burned out
and have not? At lake Como, I comb
the grass flat, as if in the starwatching
Earth's hands press me, my body, farther
from that cosmos I reach for, E.T-like,
as for doves, for any bird whose soft feathers
begs to be patted. If I have grabbed
a dove, felt that crushing of limbs,
have I sinned? If I made red the palestra
ground, can you forgive me? Yes, I have
killed, but any day these bleached hands
are like their faces. I have suffered.
Can you clean my hands?