Confession

At some point
you must confess
that a system of imperfect
pieces making the beautiful
isn’t a consolation
but an art.

At some point
you must confess
that for all the errors
caught in your eye
there is equal softness
on your fingers.

At some point
you must confess
that knowledge
eats itself, and that outside
things are just inside things
that are ‘there’ instead of ‘here’.

At some point
you must confess
you must confess
you must confess.