All I could do was turn and go back to the house
and the door that I can’t see out of.
My life was supposed to be wider, not so forlorn
and not standing out in this north country bled
like maple. I do not want to write poems
about stacking cords of wood, as if the world
is that simple, that quiet is not simple or content
but finally cornered and killed. I still need the revolution
bright as a blaze of the wood stove in the window
when I shut the light and mount the stairs to bed.
– Dionne Brand
Found this poem on the subway. Thanks, Art In Transit, it resonated.