Essay on Time and Work

This country, I think—
     like the plot we want to clear 
of weeds and overgrowth, the kinds
     that would choke the life 
out of anything good and green
     we tuck and fold into the soil. 
In the streets now, soldiers with
     bayonets. Riot of storefronts 
and blasted ATMs— the doing of those 
     with no respect for the industry 
of bodies bent down to the earth, 
     even as they've taken the haloed 
harvests; nor for the love which kept 
     us going despite lashes and chains 
and burns. Last night, hard up to summon 
     some stronger stirring of faith 
in my heart, my beloved turned to me 
     and said, I don’t have time 
anymore. Meaning, here I am, grown 
     old; how could we not hold
what we carry with nothing 
     but gentleness. 

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