The songs we like don't make us cry

or— we cry our lives
out— no compromise.
No composition
of sunrise to whet
the spirit, or
daisy-chain of dimples
to admire— no.
We harden:
iron hand in iron
hand, hanging
our sanity
on scalding wire
as if hope's retaliation,
getting our digs

dug in.
I may be wrong—
each song grips
us falling, untwisting
the root crafts cause
for continuing.
But the songs we like
don't make us cry—
they empty us of leaving.