MAKING IT

At the outpost of our peculiar
longing to persist where that last tendril
tightening around itself seems
the least probable to make it across
apparent nothing (the spirit we say)
stalling (there being no one else)
with what’s being said these days about
our best leaves’ loss of a taste for staying
so little learned or saved of the first green
(the true Christ of this mess we’ve made)
hindering whatever we seek to help
in the sweet bitter way we do things
falsifying the past deceiving ourselves
about the future comes one welcome finch.