oh

Glow, light, and tell me something:
do you ever fear?
In the soft white night hum,
the haze of talk and fireflies,
do you feel?
I feel.
I feel you, warm and strong
against my pupils--
contract,
contract,
sign on the dotted line.
I feel the tight-throat-small-
world ache of plans and pains
and an IV dripping crimson into
her tissue-paper purple veins.
This is feeling:
what is a prayer but a lit candle,
a puff of smoke, a match's
acrid scent dipped into dishwater,
hiss.
And this is fearing:
all those nights, and
crimson dripping, dripping,
and the bag wrinkled empty and transparent.
Do you fear?
Do you feel?
Or did you know from day one,
four BC, or thirty-three AD,
that all would be well,
and all will be well,
and all manner of things shall be well?
Because, lamp, I do not see the world
in a hazelnut shell;
I can't afford hazelnuts,
haircuts, hamburgers, or bus fare in the rain.
Let me tell you:
I feel pain and empty evenings
where friends should would be.
Look at me: and tell me,
glimmer, if you felt the ache of
endless unresolution,
unheard cries for retribution,
loved ones steeped in, seeping sorrow,
and the dull, sweet taste--
of distraction, dim and dimming?