I think there are some

who insulate their walls

with a bulletproof misery

and call it home

Who turn on heel and run

from this or that, here or

there, that they may not reap

what they have sown.

Perched behind the curtain

to await fire and bloodshed,

only to sneak a peek and see

themselves inside the glass

Easier to look away and

say, “Not I, not I, you

know not I, shall ever be

the faceless little mass.”

Better to empty the vase

before the petals fall, to wash

the still-green leaves right out

with anti-septic soap.

Neater to bookmark fate and

store it (“Later,” you say, “Not ever.”)

To wash the fertile dreams right out

with anti-septic hope

Safer to wear the gloves,

never risk the bite of frost

and ice that grip the flesh afresh

(Condenses in a sigh)

Yes, I shudder to think that there

are those who would sink so low.

Indeed, I shudder to think that one

of them was I.