Peccatology

As Kafka has told us,

sin always comes openly:

It walks on its roots and doesn't have to be torn out.

How easily it absolves itself in the senses,

However, in Indian Summer,

the hedge ivy's star-feet

Treading the dead spruce and hemlock spurs,

The last leaves like live coals

banked in the far corners of the yard,

The locust pods in Arabic letters, right to left.

How small a thing it becomes, nerve-sprung

And half-electric,

deracinated, full of joy.