Of a Piece

When I am of a piece

I will have no shame.

Into the bursting sunlight I will lead my vices

clinging to my fingertips like children

one by on to forgive them all

every little pleasure

and little evil.

When I am of a piece

I will take thought

to the whole last strength

of the thinking body

sleep like death

and rise with the light,

laughing.

When I am of a piece

I will talk sense.

There in the pounding day,

in the silence in the night

of the gatherers ‘round the fire,

I will find my words

choosing me, carefully.

When I am of a piece

I will take and eat

everything like that apple

I stole once

to break my traveller’s fast

in a shut Catholic town:

root, stem, seed.

When I am of a piece

I will make poems,

half, botched, glib, mystical

poems and leave them out everywhere

for anyone to see,

neither treasure

nor buried.

I will walk in the day

and I will walk

in the night. I will forgive

and I will not

forgive. I will speak. I will “own up.”

When I am of a piece. When I am

of a piece.