The Brooklyn Rail

Open your eyes to a present bare
as a winter tree, the tree a raw nerve,
not dead but at rest. A mistake to think

now is always; soon enough the bud
and bloom, the green leaf and husked fruit.
Soon enough the small jaw makes of the hard shell

dust; makes of the sweet meat a feast. What wild
soft hope to suppose that what was will be.
For now, take the attitude of work,

then the attitude of rest, then work—
a curious industry—then rest. For now,
grab the hand that pulls you up, the hand

that gets you dressed, the hand that soothes you
when you wake in the dark, startled and damp.
Is the hand your own? So be it. Is the hand

another’s? So be it. There is a future
in your mouth, smoky quartz on your tongue.
Where will you hold it: belly, teeth, or palm?