little hopes

things of hope: a friend reminded me, while we were taking on the sea, of ascetic practices, of full attention to a single flame, rain against the porch, the sound of a bird. still in shock, visions flashing of regenerative earth, dark seed, a full bush, the weight of my thighs, clothes washing over a washboard. small books, slow conversations, friends you feel closer to than family, running and running and then, no siren, no rush, the final collapse of your breath and mine, and theirs, magic for the end times, and the bright red dawn.