The fires of hope and light
come around. They invite
devotion. Reconsideration. Individuation—
a respite
that increases your sense of what comes back.
A Life
that creates a surreptitious
heightening and enlightening.
It scares one, when winning
comes so easily, when sinning
is not something that descends
into charity, and mercy, and
fidelity. To me,
well, something. Perhaps t ofight,
and to trying
to requisition a sighting
of your own inspiring
birds of paradise.
Have you won the war?
Have you started the time
toward your own dying?
To your own wayward
reviving
of the light?
I think this is it.
I think this is how I am crying:
out of meaningless,
out of shame,
out of an ending, a forgetting
of even what I wanted to reclaim.