Were it not for the mind
that always wants to calculate the cost,
the heart and mouth that always want
to cram one more pleasure in,
there might be no call to separate
flesh from its limits, no need to make
apology for the noisy clapper sounds
made by attachment
after attachment— Is there hope?
I want to ask— Or, how long is this work
of endless cleaning, trimming,
pruning? In heat-hazed streets,
beggar children knock on car windows
opening their palms, offering grain-
sized buds they’ve threaded
into garlands. Help me, see
me, give me, say the ones who need
the most— How is it not possible to give
when even these blossoms, already dead,
cannot hold in their scent?
In response to Via Negativa: Dogged.