h . o . p . e.

Mothers feel warmth pepper
Their breasts
Then season their nipples with silk

At every street corner
They stop in punctuation
To stand before liquid crystal

They are always doing something
To what they reveal

Her lover is reciting sorrow
To his boss
As she watches envious of
Incurable faith

She clutches her stomach
As if pleased with what she’s made
Of herself

She turns to continue her trot
Graceful, slow and purposeful
To her next destination

They are always feeling something
To what they reveal

People. Shoes.

It seems if you don’t use it, you lose it: Hope.
It isn’t like a diamond, a woman or a man.
It isn’t tangible, yet it spoils like milk, and feels like tragedy when deferred.
Pour it in your cereal, coffee, tea. Let it rain from your nipples into another’s mouth.
Let the steps of your bare feet release its fragrance.
Let your kiss spell it, in no uncertain terms.
Let your eyes pour into another’s dry cup.
Let your body create it from fireflies of passion.
Write it, say it, spray it, but if you’ve got it – use it.
But not like graffiti.
Don’t walk away and leave it unattended or as art to be admired.
Deferred hope is tragedy, and stains the walls of the soul with disbelief, and Belief is more challenging than Hope to use for painting others with Love.

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