If you ask me about hope,
I’ll tell you about the days
when it knocks on my door
and I don’t answer.
When it comes to soften edges
and feed phantoms;
when it’s the cruel caller,
the corpse at the door;
when it waits dead.
On those days,
I don’t want what it brings,
so I become the wind
and I declare the storm.
I don’t want what it brings,
so I tear the roof from this house
and the sky falls in.
Old wounds shake loose.