It’s not so much as loss
and love, but moving forward,
such strength. There are
so many people who can’t
close the book, they’re pressing
weight on sinkholes, deeper
into smoking core, over-worked.
Hold the ache, fuel to keep creating:
Potowatami tribesmen give pilgrims
corn when they rolled up, black
pointy shoes and tongues flashing,
and look what we have now:
perspective of nonchalance, or
pain, whichever memory comes first.