64 (I'm not mad, beautiful)

I'm not mad, beautiful, that would be

like blaming the sun for casting shadows,

like cursing the ocean with a threat of rain.

The first gift of sin is hypocrisy.

The second is bilious forgiveness,

like pigeon pecks in morning vomit,

because wrong to wrong, all of us are leaders.

A few more hours of my silence—

you won't be bothered to think about it.

And why should you?  There isn't any we.

But that look of yours hurled me from heaven,

me, who for your grace trades to live below,

who for a glimpse of sky, lives in the sea.    

published  in The Brooklyn Rail

included in "Webcam Girls Read Sonnets" in Vice