There is a quiet dignity
that sustains the sutures of the everyday.
Stones laid beneath burdens
that silently bear the weight of everything,
the tearing of estranging skins unto each other,
the heaviness hanging above our bending backs,
all things in their right and proper places.
When night arrives,
the affability of the banal
shelters us from everything outside,
from the hateful stars sailing through the night,
from crazy howls echoing between the hills,
from the rain erasing our names and faces,
from the lukewarm taste of blood on our lips.
It must be safe in here.
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