fear of imperfection

that was the year he started
walking in fear, feeling shame
lodged like a plank, or a pickaxe,
conspicuous, clumped in the
brain, the weight of God in
the arched two backs of sacred
and profane. he was not afraid
of standing on a stage, or
reading a verse, or laying one
foot before the other in front
of traffic. terror swept in the
cradle of darkness, the fear
of never catching a glance,
the fear of pretense crumbling
to ash, brushing the dust of sagely
presence, of failure as a friend,
a son. the bright sorrow is always
ringing, always ringing, and fading
into forgetting.