Maybe the sky’s a washed out gray and the stones
you’ve been counting on get lost, the simple fact
that you were born at all could make you act
the fool’s part gladly when your finger bones
lock up and the only sound around’s the low moan
your mouth makes, the only sight the cracked
glass pane you never fixed, the frozen tract
behind it—waste, just waste. Look how you’ve grown.
Look how you’ve learned to turn away despair.
And though you can’t quite find the way you came,
can’t quite retrace those steps, can’t quite say where
it is you’re going, still it needs no name:
you’ve learned to carry silence like a prayer
so true it feeds you. No blame. No, no blame.