Forget about the terror and take
a decade head start to feel the roots
of a world that you my dear, could never tame.
You could belong, yes, if you tried to belong;
if you hadn’t spent enough history ripping
the soil out of your hand and feeling nothing.
No-one is asking you to fix the dead
but to listen, to remember the humming
of a world that waits not for your mind-made hope.
Forget about the prophets and take
a blushed morning’s head start to feel
the body of the moon and flesh you left aside.
No-one is asking you to believe in magic,
to make the trees more than trees,
but maybe, at least, to know them.
Forget about salvation and men,
about the careless solutions to careless desire
and trust in a world that you my dear should know
has never been ours to save.