What’s to come has already been,
say those convinced of static signs.
What’s to come must be forged within,
know those contesting dark designs.
I may gulp them down, these received seeds
(or were they found in this cold dead ground
by me finding what it means to be free?).
Cold dead underground foreign to sun,
that life waking in me every day
impelling me to find my home,
as intentions impel expressions
and reputations impel concern,
the aspirations of our mothers
and fathers to live through us all they’ve learned.