Bless me Father,
for I have sinned,
and sinned,
and sinned again.

Blessed it was
and blessed remains
of a night,
and a touch, 
and a sigh.

What sin is this?
These lesser evils,
these sudden insights to life,
and after life what well may be.
I see it now
as then.

I saw not sin.
What sin is there in gusts of rain,
in twilight
or in gain?

If sin it is
then I must take it up
and plant my beds of it
so that spring is all of this
and nothing else.

If this be sin
then I will smile,
name myself Sinner,
and Sin will be my heart,
and in the darkest hour
I will have all of it
and love what Gods remain.

Cheap paradise it may be
but if heaven's only for the rich
so help me,
I'll be poor and vagrant too.

For small I am,
human in form
and function
so that my earthly years
be they but sand on leathered palm
seem all that ever could be,
so too this gentle sin.

Let it be my last,
my only.

If I love this
let the sin only be
that I gave my all to it.
Loved where love was found
and desired not so much more 
nor less than any other.
I swept up my pity, my beginning
and put it on a doorstep
not hope but close enough to touch it,
a tingle right before the dawn.

I am what I am
and always shall be,
never could be
any other than myself.

Do not be surprised
that I might wander into knowledge
nor draw contempt to stare and pity.

Sin did not tempt me to trip.
If I fell at all
it was to catch and tell,
to see myself,
master all that is I
and give myself a name.