Clarification

Being one who wanted always

to prod the polish of a painting,

and prick myself on its stippled skin;

to bury my face in a fall of hair;

to lay my head, entraining

to the thin cotton and the nippled hint;

to thrust my fingers in the floral foam

to feel its dry and grainy clasp –

given all this ache and lapse,

tell me again, bring it home,

tell me how it happened that we alone

must carry the weight of our people's sin?