A pesky sin that's most original
lives in my fumbling fingers. I miss the bulls eye
as often as I hit. When good deeds fall
to shreds, I blush. I rush to indemnify
a pesky sin that's most original.
The world is always shaking. I pause to lean
against the railing. I sit to thread needles.
But accidents crowd my elbow. They careen
regardless of my careful aim. This is
a pesky sin that's most original.