It is embarrassing
to be human
while little
big tragedies continue,
abound, over and under.
Everywhere, war,
hurricanes, sickness,
death. Outside
the body, the violence
of life. Inside, the miracle
of it. Imagine, after
surviving decades
of existence,
of bearing
witness to both
doldrum and chrysalis,
and having tongued
sweet water and piss—
to finally believe
in having gathered
enough wisdom,
and grace, only
to find late
at night while
silence possesses
space: grief of
love still takes
first place.