Listen.
We must all stop dying in the little ways,
in the craters of hate,
in the potholes of indifference -
a murder in the temple.
The place I live in
is a kind of maze
and I keep seeking
the exit or the home.
Yes if I could listen
to the bulldog courage of those children
and turn inward into the plague of my soul
with more eyes than the stars
I could melt the darkness -
as suddenly as that time
when an awful headache goes away
or someone puts out the fire -
and stop the darkness and its amputations
and find the real McCoy
in the private holiness
of my hand.
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