'labour'

and there shall someday be a day
when you will stop singing that song.
when the brown packages that
do not arrive
take all of that
beautiful and iridescent
faith
right out of your throat
and your lungs
and your little books
and your soul.
sparkles blind
and you are oh so
often lulled into
the second act
without so much
as a drop
of poison
to whet your
tongue.
we do not need
to be able to see;
the hairs in your eyes
may even be
the rope that
you need to
pull yourself
up
from down
under.
all that we need
is to be able to hear
the real words
of our own
libretti;
with hands that are redder
than blood.