Even while we cry
for help—
pinned and seeing
neon in a car crash,
dangling and superfluous
in a pitch black elevator shaft,
from every strained cell
of our body mass,
in our weaknesses,
in our sleep—
we nevertheless remain
those rightwise
and bright-eyed optimists
of myth.
To have a taste
for anything at all—
any form of subsistence
we may yet deign to eat—
is an article of faith.
Every day,
to wake,
and to rise—surely
these are two kinds
of belief.
