How accustomed we’ve become
to seeing the evil
of others,
through fragile sets of thought.

Easy our hearts find menace,
sinister calculation
and malice—
clothed in the flesh of a stranger;
Mother, brother, lover.

Do the works I now lay down
before us, and lay down
with me,
within them.

Ask not for retreat
until rest seeks you—finished,
ready for assumption,
the judgement’s mantle
at last,
a perfecting fit.