Hope

How much do the children
need to see
of the gristly crease
and the gulf beyond;

how much cold
before they wear their hats;

how close to the dead,
the dead with their hungry cheeks
turned for kisses,

being felled again and lumped
in heaps, the deep stars
humming something else—

we love their (the children’s)
wings folded against our hands;
a kiss!—

of course, but for them,
meaning for us,
walking on air with eyes closed—

a gape of rain and thunder,
drops open as love;

in the flash we look out
or meet eyes—

how safe will it make us
to know it,

to plunge into or
study

the darkness?

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