Tilt-a-Whirl
A Poetry Sporadical of Repeating Forms
With Regrets
Passengers are asked to refrain from congregating in the aisles of the aircraft.
by J.D. Smith
I sin, yet can’t atone
For doing what I must.
I congregate alone.
When men of skin and bone
Must steal to gnaw a crust,
They sin yet can’t atone.
A sculptor meets with stone
And finds in it a bust.
He congregates alone,
While monks who sleep on stone
Still on that bed know lust.
They sin but can’t atone,
Though prophets, to be shown
A truth, must earn its trust,
And congregate alone.
With every mile I’ve flown
Passing from dust to dust,
I’ve sinned, yet can’t atone.
I congregate alone.
J.D. Smith is a writer and editor in Washington, DC. His third collection, Labor Day at Venice Beach, publishes in August 2012. His first essay collection, Dowsing and Science, was published in 2011 by Texas Review Press.
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