Thirteen words, four lines, and an apology so big it has no room left for details. "Apology" says very little about who is speaking, who is being addressed, or what went wrong. All it gives us is a feeling: the urge to say sorry for "everything I have ever done." The central idea seems to be that real remorse can outrun language. The speaker wants to apologize, but the words get in the way, and the poem enacts that struggle in miniature.
The opening is the most intriguing part. "As word's / Hurrytumble" is a fragment that never quite resolves. The apostrophe in "word's" could mark a possessive (the hurrytumble belonging to a word) or a contraction (something like "as words are, a hurrytumble"). The poem doesn't settle it, and that uncertainty suits the subject, since a stumbling apology rarely arrives in tidy grammar. The invented compound "Hurrytumble" does most of the work. It fuses haste and falling, so we picture words rushing out and tripping over one another. It also sounds slightly childlike, like a word made up on the spot, which fits a moment when the speaker is too flustered to reach for a proper one. Even the sound tumbles: the stresses fall on the first and third syllables, HUR-ry-TUM-ble, and the soft, rolling "r," "m" and "l" sounds keep it from stopping short.
The shape of the poem carries the same idea. Judging by syllable count, the lines grow as they go: two syllables, then four, then seven, then nine. It is like a snowball picking up weight, or a speaker who starts hesitantly and then gathers speed. There is no rhyme to hold the lines in place and no end punctuation. Each line begins with a capital letter, but none closes with a full stop, so the final line, "For everything I have ever done," trails off into white space instead of finishing. The apology is never formally completed, which may be the point.
The third line deserves a second look: "I want to apologize." The speaker doesn't write "I apologize" or "I'm sorry." Wanting to apologize is not the same as doing it, so the poem hovers in the gap between intention and act. Perhaps the "hurrytumble" of words is exactly what stands in the way, or perhaps the speaker senses that no words could ever be enough. The line is also plain and everyday, with no ornament at all, and that plainness sounds sincere after the odd, invented word before it.
Then comes the sweeping last line. "Everything" and "ever" echo each other, so the repeated sounds push the sentence toward total, absolute territory: every action, across a whole lifetime. Nothing is singled out. This opens up two readings, and the poem doesn't choose between them. One reading is that the speaker is overwhelmed, so weighed down by guilt that no single offence can be named. The other is that a blanket apology is a way of avoiding a specific one, since it is easier to say sorry for everything than to admit one particular thing. The final word, "done," is blunt and final, and it sounds a little like "finished" as well as "performed." That adds a faint shadow of regret to the line, though this is an inference rather than something the poem states.
What makes the poem worth reading is how much it does with so little. It doesn't explain its guilt or tell a story, and it doesn't wrap up neatly. By leaving out context, it lets almost any reader step into the speaker's place, because most of us have felt the panic of needing to say sorry and not knowing how to start. The poem is also honest about what that moment is like. The apology isn't graceful or eloquent. It is rushed and tangled, and it overreaches as it tries to cover everything at once. In that clumsiness, the poem suggests, lies much of the sincerity.