If I could let the sordid scene
of angry and defeated men
unravel like the fraying hem
of curtains in old Bethlehem

If I could test the limits of
a gentler, more indifferent love
by pressing less upon the clutch
and slowing on the wider curves

I might discover scenery
in process of new greenery
smell maple buds and not so much
the acid of distending nerves.

If I could learn it’s not too soon
to hope with some authority
that glimpses of a brighter noon
are gleaming from humanity

I might be less inclined to swoon
at every seeming tragedy
or at the very least disdain
from jumping on the nearest train—

—to Bedlam and cheap perfidy.


© Elaine Stirling, 2015