A Poem by Anon ymous

We’re told to give up some luxury; it is penitential, a pious
custom to winnow our sins. Take them away: the black birds

peering at us from a wire [the sin of beauty]; a naked bulb
swinging in the hall [the sin of desire]; a rosewater scent,

the weight of your hand on my arm [the sin of love]; a smudge
of oil on the back of your wrist [the sin of art]. What remains

has nothing to do with our souls; nothing to do with how deep
winter cuts or how abandon can burst a summer sun in two.