None might be saved by our singing. None
by one of our hymns or chants or cheers.
None might be stirred by our voices’ strands,
our spirits’ thin fingers stroking sad ears.
None might be roused off the rickety stool
where the golden doubles are endlessly poured.
Rounding The Sun

None might be drawn from that icy trench
unsure of the faint song one’s limping toward.
None from the charred town deafened and numb,
hunting that distant unclear human sound.
None through the desert unnerved and unarmed,
toward our hoping mouths over arid ground.
Rounding The Sun

None, or could there be some? Like the band
who crossed from Siberia tracking caribou.
None of them with us now, but whose young
made great nations of that ancient few.
None might come wakened from deep trance
like bears out of dens or bees out of hives.

Rounding The Sun
None might even hear us through the din
but we’ll sing if we can, for all our lives.

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