This cannot save me from my lungs of fire,
Burning houses cradled in a fence of
None. This cannot save me from tires piled to
Heaven, from systemic hate, indifference,
Rattles on the tail poised to strike. Not from
Self-congratulation, nor self-censure.
This cannot save me from a shelf, from a
Quiet little corner where I can dream
Out the rest of my breath. It cannot stem
The cravings of a body or mind, or
Treat us any kinder than the prospect
Of death, that silent magistrate and law.
But it can live beyond that final test.
It can go on and sow its seed in the
Fertile belly of the Earth, feed the dreams
That churn within her breast, till she gives birth.