Hinterland

in this kingdom
all are called…
    but some are sent
each has a place
to belong…
    some on the edge
pushing against
the darkness…
    with nothing but
    a tiny flame
    that shouldn’t burn
    but can’t be doused,
    doesn’t waiver,
    and doesn’t fret
in the backwoods
of the world…
    that longs for the
    city of rest

(Poetry Scales 63)