ignites in me plenitude
that scents rain. Sense
the sky is full of surprising
music. Timpani, trumpet
a blue tent torn that orders
cogent, cumulative event in which no false intonation
claims itself king
over all. Every last woman
man, and child proof the rain falls
never to be worn out
Freedom is the breaking point beyond rage
I’m not scared and I don’t care where the dream
undertakers have warned me not
to take too much, not to
love too much, not to look too closely at the past,
What could there be left to break?
Nothing left to be broken
Nothing left to be taken.
From Jump the Clock: New and Selected Poems (Nightboat Books, 2020). Copyright © 2020 by Erica Hunt. Used with the permission of the poet.