I was not made to be a saint.
I can't be motionless, transparent, 
like you can. Even when I take all night 
to be empty, to be free, I have fought 
so long to be part of this world 
the thousand thousand things intrude. 
Shadowed inner rim of the crescent
moon looks like the stylized profile
of a child. It is, of course,
your face. And mine, and any child's.
And it spills down onto the ocean,
where it folds into everything
else: the spines of the various trees.
The roof of your small house.