1 New Poem

Other Suns

There is a warmth heard in these late breeze nights,

kindle-crackling of Lutheran church pamphlets,

of New Republic back issues; the radical kind

of hope that flowers in threadbare stitching.

Up from ashen concrete, up from bloodied faces,

up from craven tempests of time

in their steel shackle indifference:

the kind that is more than hope,

more than mere caviar dreams,

the kind tempered in masonry making,

and made to glance centuries of refute.

It holds no mirrored repose of Urals' beyond beckoning,

stands on no Espejo hillside

for opportunist stock ticker suit-tie clatter:

it holds out only, in the bitter jaws of our winter's half-calm,

for chance of favoured weather

“and, perhaps, to bloom.”