Excuse my luck.
I'm a satisfied woman in a good house
blessed with two children who burst
with life, and if the asphalt world
grieves my heart, grieves
and deadens and the whole thing dangles
by a thread of time, well
it still sings like the wire in a radio,
picking up something that's true;
how else could it be? I'm sure
because when I hunkered close to listen
a hand bore down, pressing my body
into the vast deep muss of earth's suffering;
my time came upon me, and here's the crux:
if life and luck are born, and birth,
as it happens, is reeking agony,
and yet, held in pain-wracked wasted arms,
babies blink away their clouds of glory
to get a clear picture of what they already love,
such as us, for Christ's sake,
then yes, there is
something good that's indestructible.
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