Let me sow love, I state before apathy,
the indifferent touch I grasped, blanching
forth the bone of its chill, profligate and scant
bespeaking warmth, the bravura of style—
let me not give up this day without redemption.
Here, I persevere
as refugee, perchance, in someone else’s field?
It’s dark, for sure, the way is uncertain.
Life has made a striking contradiction,
who are these familiar strangers?
There, it is not in standing,
I do not give up on love, Apathy, even now
no stairs nor ascent, proceeding only by ground,
the dust a salve for deathly shadows,
the dust vital to the soul, invariably pure.