Love, of course you’re not worthy
and I am not worthy, either.
Who do we think we are?
After twenty years, don’t
we know failure by now,
each other’s and our own?
There’s so little to hide,
and still we try to prove, what?
That we are good?
Oh love, my dear one, bring me
your undeserving hands,
I will give you my stained hands,
too, and let us hold each other
the way only two damaged
people can do—as if the world
depends on it, knowing full well
that it does.