It is not
calling aloud
to god that makes
god open one eye
from infinite rest.
Setting off alarms--
bodies falling into
the clean, ravenous
space beneath cliffs
too young mothers
birthing purple babies
teeth without meat,
lips without balm
war, war, and hate--
These things break
life but do not
invite reverberations
from the oldest foundations.
It is satin silence,
the touch of chimes
moved by breeze
on back porches
Bodies sheltering bodies
waiting for the bus
In imagination-
taking space and shaping
it temporarily, forever
seeing the ghost shape
of birch trees against
winter skies
It is planted in the stomach,
(the deepest part)
that does not bleed
or die or change.
The smallness
of strength is
remarkable.
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