Monster [It's possible I misconstrued you]

It’s possible I misconstrued you, laid too much emphasis on the uniqueness of a birth, failed to acknowledge circumstance could corrupt, sustain; I indulged myself in accusations against an absolute. I don’t believe what I then believed. You are not responsible for Leibniz or the Lisbon quake, for the twenty-six-eyed and sixty-arsed box jellyfish, that the cosmos is shaped like a soccer ball; or for the dosido of right and wrong around the garden bed. You are not the monster I thought you were, not by definition or necessity the one immutable. You are a creator caught in a creator’s net, in fact a creature. Every horror has its own pathology, the disease infects the flock. Prey present as predators, the malefactors replicate even as the angels experiment with cures. Each encounter pulls against reductive story, says I will not, I am just (an instant, an instance), and reference skews on maps not drawn to scale. I know saintliness exists. It’s all around me. My next door neighbours in their simple modesty, the lady down the street who is always helping someone older than herself. Even the slow judicial process conceives it natural to be better than we are. I’m trying to shoo the gloomy birds away but crows repeat about me on the lawn; and the vulture and the kite, the cuckoo and the owl: should I have given up the ghost when I was drawn from the womb?