You trust all of it, you do. Even quicksand
has a bottom. Pink is the color your heart beats, beats
above ground, picking up pigment and pace
before those toes touch bedrock - oh,
but the saturation trembles on pulsed aftershocks
before you climb hands and knees out of it, safe.
Knew the length of yourself and depth of regrets,
what kills, the lesser threats (cancers
and accidents), and days. Knew them
absolute - but asphalt's gone squishy with rain,
hasn't it, Girl, and what's under
is manmade and sluggish sewer. The good
globe entire is paved with intent and you
have lost where to step.
[after reading "Assurance" by William Stafford from Contemporary American Poetry, Fifth Edition]