Sex is no sin, but the regular disbursal of my indulgence
may greatly accrue to the inequity of human trafficking;
I am thankful for my sacred daily bread, but my excess
supplies pressure to beleaguered bare tables in Burundi.
Every right have I to enjoy a toasty bed at 27 below,
but my preferred energy option spells global harm;
silently in spring do I bear the shame of mown lawn,
irritated as activists are by my irrigated wasteland.
What profit, though, in rigor of abstinence or abstemia?
My efforts alone will not alter the angle of Earth’s axis.
I am loathe to make love of life ledger or legerdemain.
Better to focus on good I can do than the harm I might.
Do I justify transgression to inflate grace? You be judge;
answers confound me. But I trust in Justice eternal,
sounded soft in a capital G, generous and ingenious,
genesis of all we call evil or good. Yes, the hell I do.