Within a spreadsheet of neat rows and columns,
with clear date and day, definite time and tide –
deeds that should not have been done and
not-deeds that should have been,
words that should not have been spoken and
not-words that should have been –
are too indelibly etched. Any moment
details of surfaces upon which I have
slipped and stuff that I have happened to
spill are accessible, retrievable.
Capable of being scrutinised, analysed.
It may seem a burden, a veritable source
of shame. But should this database
be (even slightly) doctored, deleted,
I know I shall
my chances of attaining all that is
Complete I am,
disposed to growing
whole and strong,
as long as I am aware
of how incomplete
I have been.