poeming at the end of the day
sitting at the end of the day,
in silence, house still and dark,
the ringing in my ears, the wooshing
of my blood as it cycles through me,
the whirring of electronics, the sirens
a far away sigh, reminding me,
over and over, our work here is not done;
we rise, we fall, we are human.
we can make ourselves, in love.
we are making ourselves, with love.
we will make ourselves, as love.