I Tell Her
I tell her: we must get at the ground,
deep beneath the dirt, where the roots are.
Only here can we make ourselves strong;
here, where our proofs and reasons lie, buried.
We must separate the wheat from the chaff,
we must harvest only good things.
Remember how we want our lives to feel:
like drunkenness; gentle and warm,
eyes cloudy with God and smoke,
with the beauty of cold summer.
I thought of our lives patched together,
pieced together, pressed together
and brimming with purpose,
lives like old shoes; gentle and worn,
like the stars tonight-wherever they are-
bright, but hidden.
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