Grim is the day rolling.
Aground we have smashed and so
thrashes, rushes bared teeth,
hollering thumping of fists smashing into
chests, faces, angry hearts
willful, fiery, passionate above all else so
staying awake in the night
becomes a right of passage: You are grown up
now, you are ready to know what bleeding is
now. But,

I want to rise to the white.
I want to stretch mouth up and
kiss fists, break down
Babels and Colossus of Rhodes and bring around
the garden.

Grim is the day rolling.
Yet, single whispers still clasp
and meddle in the wickedness,

like rivers,
that haven’t been swept. That still carry their blessing with them.