3. The One
Seventy times seven I forgave you.
Four hundred ninety times I craved your pardon.
That was the world of we, the universe
Of you, the space or spacelessness of they.
The hours that make the week cannot compete.
The days that form the year cannot compare.
Seeing the forest, shall we count the trees,
Enumerate the numerable leaves,
Number the flutters, add, subtract each fall,
Tell green from green, sift amber, ocher, gold?
Here in the world of one, the universe
Of I, the psyche’s space of spaciousness,
How many times must one condone one’s own
Mauve trespasses? Can I forgive myself?