In the greatness of our fallen ambitions,
that one fertile rift,
soil from stone,
agrees to the flourishing of bladed tufts,
a patchwork of cautiousness,
optimism as tenderness,
the soul reborn from decay . . .
Empathy prohibits an examination
of survival, consciousness, all the
thrashing beauty in
. . . every ripening hour is devoured
all the same.