Of Thy peace
Make me an instrument of Thy peace,
o Lord, Saint Francis suggested.
I feel that way often - like an instrument.
Not of peace, certainly;
of chaos, incongruity, surreality.
More precisely, I feel
like a delicate, precision instrument
wrongly calibrated from scratch;
a faulty circuit, perhaps, a cracked cog;
a sprung spring, a warped wheel
throwing me chronically awry; failing
to read and measure correctly
the world around me;
out of balance, forever teetering,
up and down, up and down.
Hard to be happy with constant failures;
a consistent missing of the mark;
hard not to worry, to be peaceful
with the invariably failed readings
of my inadequate, roughly self-adjusting equipment.
O child of God, if it was easy, what a lazy,
complacent, good-for-nothing scoundrel you would be!