You swear
what keeps you going is
the prospect
of tomorrow:
a contemplation
of the rosy
taste of clover honey,
the mouthfeel
of good milk.
But what is hope, really,
but a certain kind
of fear
that's been perverted
and turned
on its ear?
When you leave here,
how will you know you were
free in this moment—
this moment of sorrow
which must precede creation—
regardless
of that thing
which was destined
to happen?
