Confessional

I'm thinking the word ruminative this morning from pink sheets and angry words. How the tides come in and then go out. How fatigue shapes the mouth tilts the eyes weighs heavy. Someone is a curling wave and another is still murk. We're 90 percent water. Mea culpa. The confessional box. When I made my first confession, I bounced up and down on the kneepad, making the little light over the screen window flash on and off. It slid open, the priest's head a shadow. Wait a sec, hon, his mouth was murky. He slid the window back. Silence. Darkness. We're told to shoot for the moon because if we miss, we'll land among stars.