Is this some enigmatic type of test? What if weFail? How and to whom do we address our appeal?

I am you, one day out of five, Tired, empty, hating what I carry But afraid to lay it down, stingy, Angry, doing violence to others By the sheer freight of my gloom, Halfway home, wanting to stop, to quitBut keeping going mostly out of spite.

She's like an islandMade of rock, with one lone tree at the topOf the only mountain. She's like the soleIncongruous goat tethered to the tree,Smiling almost as you approach, scrapingThe ground with its horns, and then--Lickety split--lurching hard, daringThe rope to snap.

One of poetry’s great effects, through its emphasis upon feeling, association, music and image — things we recognize and respond to even before we understand why — is to guide us toward the part of ourselves so deeply buried that it borders upon the collective."Staying Human: Poetry in the Age of Technology

Is God being or pure force? The windOr what commands it? When our lives slowAnd we can hold all that we love, it sprawlsIn our laps like a gangly doll. When the stormKicks up and nothing is ours, we go chasingAfter all we’re certain to lose, so alive—Faces radiant with panic.

I didn't want to wait on my kneesIn a room made quiet by waiting. A room where we'd listen for the riseOf breath, the burble in his throat. I didn't want the orchids or the traysOf food meant to fortify that silence, Or to pray for him to stay or to go thenFinally toward that ecstatic light. I didn't want to believeWhat we believe in those rooms: That we are blessed, letting go,Letting someone, anyone, Drag open the drapes and heave usBack into our blinding, bright lives.

(A poem can lie.)

Is it strange to say love is a language Few practice, but all, or near all speak?

In the '70s, everything shone as bright as brass.