Mea culpa there was no wine
for the day and the table I had set perfectly
with no right to impose sobriety
when the world is at feast.
You drink from my cup
we coil up, drugged on each other
and the scents of cinnamon
and orange. You eat at my table
keep going back to it.
Mea culpa that I am hollowed and sharp
as the soft hills of the tartes aux poires
at two places.
Mea maxima culpa
that I panned these currents of sentiment
for words that would change the world
(or at least the way you feel about it)
and find nothing but an ordinary day
I knew needed God.
