| I insist death won’t soon arrive,
that there never was a time crows didn’t sparkle.
& I insist, if we fail to hear, if we fail to
words are upside down, & days are cold bone &
& I insist sky’s a throbbing in fingers
torn on concrete--
that it’s windows, crickets, the birds, &
& I insist we never get so bruised
that we strap bombs to our bodies--
deceived by the heroes we claim to admire.
Is there bearing on this ground as we stand beneath
How about now? Will death arrive now?
Here’s the impossible way we wonder
if we are alive, & I insist yes.
I insist on cosmos, insist we trust
for forty more years, at least-- that we wake
with comfort, kisses, & the dawn,
that no foreign mornings drag behind
the black heels of our nights.
I insist on shade near the ocean, or gulls in wind
& moving sky, or a blue-force that streams past
or tide, or this horizon. I insist this horizon’s
of touch & nothing like eternity. What’s
we see, & why must it diminish the spaces we
the God-like home we rest inside while the sky
burns orange & smokey. Aren’t the days
especially in sun, & isn’t God a word for
or tree, or branch, or boundary, distance, or old
We fall into unseen places. We fear this isolation--
our vast underneath. But like any August rain,
love says hello again to something we believe.