he forgave his parents for
having made him, he forgave his
sister
for her addiction to shopping,
he forgave his friends, he forgave
both of them, he forgave God
though next time she would
have to do better, he forgave his
baldness, he forgave his stinking
socks, he had been tramping for
years to get here
he forgave his Oxfam clothes
for falling to pieces, he would have
to redonate them, he forgave the
cold he had had for as long as he
could remember
rummaging through his beard for
significance, he forgave that
too, he forgave this poem
sitting alone, of course on a
bench, by the canal near
Berkhamstead
the canal by which he had first
had sex outdoors, the canal which
had been his first long walk, the
canal by which he had lived in 3
different towns
he forgave the canal
crunching his way through
some hand-baked crisps, slurping
a ridiculously expensive though
healthy detox drink
he was happy inside this body,
he forgave this perfectly imperfect
world, as the trees did their thing
& yellowed into October
he praised the glorious litany of
names, from chestnut to hawthorn
to hazel, he forgave the silence he
would never understand
which was the only thing
reflected in the glistening, smelly
water