Let’s not stop in cold, in drought,
but blanket and seed our own bed.
We’ll be a long time dead.
We walk now on stilts, on dagger heels,
through the howling of impatience
and the ailing imprisoned.
We walk now through the jails,
nothing to provide, a notion of being
free leading us from these helpless,
away from ambition and vanity,
toward the comfort of solitude
like a tree living two-thirds in death.
There is nothing left to resist,
where there is nothing irresistible.
So these poor cities fade from vision
not maniacally but as an old memory
which was not important to that dream
when your hand into mine put back the dark.
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