There’s a great wildness within

with no pastures in which to run. 

There’s a great sorrow within

with no fields in which to wail. 

There’s a river within me

that’s long run dry — 

where did the rapids 

up and go? 

What do I do with wildness

in a concrete jungle? 

There are screams that echo

deep in my gut—

whose hand is clasped 

over my mouth?

When did ocean

turn to cement? 

Who chose Eve

and chained Lilith?