It is definite- just before death, I will rest my hand,
On this necessary neglected bay window.
But will I be absolved to keep the memories of:
When I held your soft creased palms, honest and adored in mine,
When your so close fingers, soft swept open my hard sullen knuckles,
When our acquitted embrace meant I made it, meant you made it,
Meant we made it?
Will I release reassured the persistent insistent long call of your touch,
Knew everything about this -right now- kind of unkind living,
And all the sins a soul will save to save itself?