heroes

​be calm love. 
don’t stop singing. 
true, it’s the season
of Neptunian winds
and disorderly zeros
and yet someone
is lighting a fire
not the metaphorical 
kind but the flame
itself, someone is cooking
dinner and there are 
hands on the line--
laundry line that is,
not the golden chain 
that pulls the damned 
from hell. 
someone must keep
doing these things
and fall in love
with the small.
don’t pretend they don’t 
have meaning, that the
low singing can’t 
hold a tune. even the
heart, vast redness
which we ascribe all
our super powers to
moves like a bee in 
the dark meadow of our
chests, an ordinary
bee, humming to
an ordinary task.