I forgive all untruths that brought me here
to uncut world outside redoubts of prayer.
Perfection is itself a man-made sphere.
I once thought the path constructed, clear:
an Architect fit life to Truth with care.
I forgive all untruths that brought me here
where words frame no enclosure, only, freer,
new stories open into untold air
(perfection is itself a man-made sphere),
and wanderers gather at a vast frontier.
Knowledge howls its feral nature there.
I forgive all untruths that brought me here.
The creature hand wants walls and fires that cheer;
the mind, its castle keep and stately chair.
Perfection is itself a man-made sphere,
and moil as we must great wholes to engineer
quick words work through each weather-tight repair.
I forgive all untruths that brought me here.
Perfection is itself a man-made sphere.
©Patricia Karamesines
Wilderness Interface Zone 