After James Tate’s “Consumed”  

Belief in light is fragile,
a pretense of faith, like
church bells on Sunday mornings.  In truth,
freedom to believe happens to everyone,
even those who don’t know, whose worldview
can change radically at a moment
unexpected, half-explained.                                               
                                                        Next
may go your consumption of news, so
ruinous to faith, to justice, to
hope for the right and good, for
fateful dreams that don’t lie
or taunt.                
                         “I’m nobody,”
the poet says, her wants
passing through dark and in her words,
you find a way, a home,
a marketplace of possibilities—
never the same-old—an experience
of the impossible, the unforgettable,
a shared longing, pure, true,
all the stranger for never being over,
for landing you
in now-familiar light.