Living is the oldest war in the world. Out walking,
and twilight leans in. Streetlights blink as if everything
needs to grow accustomed to the dark. Hands
in your pockets against the cold— when did you
learn to curl them close into themselves, in secret?
People gather in lit-up spaces filled with song
and noise. You push the door open, slide
into a seat. Here too, while joining in,
you’ve learned to rearrange those parts of yourself
at once rawer and softer, the ones you learned to
shelter from even joy. While glad for welcome, you
never entirely lift your hand from the dial, always
taking measure. The list of the wind, any draft
that could snuff out the fragile spark you carry.
*
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
