Electric,
this fire burns
dreadful
and all at once
we are branded
survivors
or witless
shakers of
silence.

Once, you plucked
a thorn from this bush,
said,
take me to
tomorrow, there I will be
branches, there
I will know
sorrow
no longer

than these days. Battered
winds of empty
passing, corridors
are the ones winding
into concrete,

thin air.
A step at a time.