And not even that
because isn’t change what will come to us anyway,
anvil to the torpid heart, the leak of desire
from a clapboard dark to the tributary of a life
that wants what we must give.
Every day the work continues, this being human,
the body a cargo of possibilities insisting on better, kinder,
a self that mends the world.
Enough with the ritual of words, the labor
of each promise already turning to ash on the tongue.
I will walk my faith to the shore,
the cave, the wailing night
to be carried
calls my name.