Somewhere a pure act is saving us. 
Prayer reaches high, 
a song reaches higher. 
In every capital, a mother’s love
for her child redeems the world 
for one more day. 
In a room without furniture, 
a violin is lifted from its case, 
and for the hour between shifts 
we are saved. 
The poet climbs the sentence, 
stumbles, falls, gets up again. 
He does something to the loose 
rocks on top and suddenly 
there is a place to stand. 
For this no one thanks him 
but by this act we live. 
The floor is scrubbed 
until its face shines like Christ 
because the old woman 
never questioned life.