“When I give food to the poor, they call me a saint. When I ask why the poor have no food, they call me a communist.”—Dom Helder Camara
We fall behind, the pace is grueling, we can only cover so much ground, there is only so much time, there is only so much we can do. The worms weep within their tunnels
Physically, night holds on. It wants to gleam but the starlight is broken, the waves of morning crash on the beach of night. The dew slips into the piquant air, coyote moves to the steady beat of sleep
Molten lead leaves its own tunnels. There is only so much weeping we, or the worms, can do. Can we feed the body? Can we feed the soul? Can we ceremoniously and in all reverence continue to feed the goddamn worms?