I hope to avoid your judgment
though I acknowledge your right to do so.
Judge me, I mean.
Take whatever instrument is at hand
and drive out everything I have coveted
with the wrong intention, everything
I’m willing to sell for less than its worth,
everything that demands to be worshipped.
Then let me rest.
is so much more work than I expected.
If I only knew how to surrender.
Instead, my hands are dry and cracked,
sweat stings my shuttered eyes,
my muscles ache and stiffen.
It is morning or it is evening
and I sit at the table writing to you.
It is the only way I know
to measure my voice against all the shouting.
On the table, a bowl of figs,
a glass of wine, sheaves of paper,
bread. Meager fare, I admit,
but what can I do?It’s all I can offer at these wages.