Feels like a folk gathering
there is dancing—feasting—singing,
orange glow, claustrophilic room.
I heard a villager recite a poem,
“The Concomitance of Souls”
whose magnets only work at close range.
To my surprise I’m also one of them.
It’s strange to think I’d think that that was strange.
There is only goodwill,
there is only faith,
the coming together of the race.
There is only faith.