Justifying the Ways of Man to God

When we woke and untangled,
the sidewalks were spread with clean sheets.
We paused before descending to the street
to write darkness into the day with the comings
and goings of our restless feet;
there was no way to exist except in sin,
the winter seemed to say and say,
as we prepared, with boots and coats,
to turn its clean back black again.

I lifted the window and reached a hand
around to its outside face to collect
the bodies of angels that fell through the night.
When I pressed them to the fabric of my shirt
they left the dark, wet prints of tears.
On the skin beneath, nothing remained
of the gentleness with which we had handled
one another’s limbs before dawn,
only the slightly lifted corner of a smile.

I sat down to save a few words about how
blank spaces have the hope of being filled
and we obey. I wondered about the sky,
throwing itself against the warm windows
of our secrets, growing from white to clear.
It was as if the heavens had given up sending
clean blankets to cover our nightly shame,
and instead, someone was trying to see in,
trying to learn human ways, the ways we devise
to live in darkness lovingly.