this is owed, in the recollection of things
the precarious accounting of confessions
and their alleged crimes—your graces,

i did not mean to murder my brother

this i want known, remembered most,
that i have loved such simple splendour
as the voices of children, welcoming me

when i was most lost, near the end of this life
having forgotten the golden sunlight like a lover
lain upon the lush green fields of cane, at dawn