some men like to keep the world in the pit
of their palm, a boy beside the psalms
of the pulpit, alms within the reach of the tips
of their fingers. some like to think a body exists
as a check mark, the people as a checkmate,
the city as a check. the politics of living endows
an illness some cannot afford to survive, plasters
a hissing eye and a woman’s fist to the window
of a school bus, means a family can reside
in a home owned by a lord. like land and money,
truth, is also a god. the world is celestial depending
on whose shoulders we sit. truth: the circulation of
newspapers increase during times of war. periled
people need knowing to unfold like a map, need
clarity clear as a marked path toward. truth:
plato’s allegory urges light to be cast onto
our shadows. the truth, then, is a catalyst.
cartography for morphing movement forward.
truth: a writer can rewrite a blushing wound
into a blooming bouquet, convert a disaster
into a display of generosity. Tr uth: a photographer
can humble hunger, capture humility in
homelessnes. a child’s dinged birthday banner
can become decorum designed for the opening
page. some experience the world through a filter
of compassion, a lens of latitude. between us is only
the long length of wind. distance can be closed
with an unexpected laugh, a funny review, a new
understanding. the world, like us, is a heavenly body
depending on who shoulders our weight. some
like to keep the cosmos in the pit of their palms, while
others like to keep the earth held in light. beacon
bound to carry. celtic city. cradle of liberty. globe
of giving. this sphere of life. this beautiful resistance,
this service onto community. this evolution of
revolution. duty to excavate, to reshape, to hold,
like Atlas, to say, like a compass: onward.