Losing them, fixing them, forgetting to put them in
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Somewhere a pure act is saving us.
Prayer reaches high,
a song reaches higher.
In every capital, a mother’s love
for her child redeems the world
for one more day.
In a room without furniture,
a violin is lifted from its case,
and for the hour between shifts
we are saved.
The poet climbs the sentence,
stumbles, falls, gets up again.
He does something to the loose
rocks on top and suddenly
there is a place to stand.
For this no one thanks him
but by this act we live.
The floor is scrubbed
until its face shines like Christ
because the old woman
never questioned life.