The drum we hear inside us now
we may not hear tomorrow.
We have such fear of what comes next. Death. These loves are like pieces of cotton. Throw them in the fire.
Death will be a meeting like that flaring up, a presence you have always wanted to be with.
This body and this universe keep us from being free. Those of you decorating your cells so beautifully, do you think they will not be torn down?
The eventual demolishing of prisons is a given. Fire-change, disaster-change, you can trust that those will come around to you.