Without trying, you'll look out
and see the sun shining
down on your city,
knowing—but unable
to bring yourself to believe
that it truly has no
alternative.
You won't even have to search
in order to find
that which seems
to want to define itself
as beauty—
the amber light
on antique heaps of brick,
the streaks of dried dog piss
that mottle the street,
each nearby
grass blade in high relief.
An unwilling witness—
amid depression,
amid poverty,
despite sickness,
despite depravity.
Perhaps, then you'll say
there's something
to not fighting
for our consonance
when every scrap of this
wretchedness
is compulsory
and every stitch of love,
unearned.
