Our lives are happening elsewhere, 
neatly laid out in a symmetric ballad. 
I do not have the same pleasures, 
You do not have the same fears.  
We have abandoned washing our
sins in the rivers and creating eddies 
of our tears inside teacups. Are there
miracles still suffused in our days? 
Yes. We gather them by the armful 
and plant them into the rich earth.  
Everything is easier, weightless,  
the cities are done up in sequins,  
more measured, forests are bequeathed 
with aged memories. I promise you,  
you can empty what you can’t carry.  
Elsewhere, our faith is rewarded.  
Elsewhere, we do not have to solve  
our lives, merely live them.  

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