#24 The Fringes
If at the last all is forgiven,
why toil here at the fringes?
The heart does loud rend at its tearing
and touches not that which offends.
And why would not all be forgiven?
A sheening of light washing over like water.
Children, we, all, as at point west stand
supple made, trials soothed -
the soul finally bends.