Perhaps a Mitigating Circumstance

Why should I not admit it. I am harshly trained;

poems now and then grow pale,

turning to ice and to a windowsill,

and the birds slide down.

They sing, Let us knead from clay,

the herons — ashen, white and red.

With a breath of fragrance, the girls’ laps

take nothing of what is left of them.

Then they quarrel in riddles;

they tumble down the hillsides, sleep in mountain huts.

Along the way, oh God, they take no hostages.

From afar they catch the scent of charred temples, a heavy reek;

in nets and in midnight prayers,

I cannot do otherwise — barefoot I step across the shadows.