It’s the small package
I’ve carried with me
these dozens of years

He’s inside, he must continue, at an infinite
rate, like a word
discovered with other words

A child pointed at the sky, made it his,
and then he points at the one he loves
and suddenly it’s his sky,

The blanket, its weight, while we were growing.
Or the eyes, which yesterday were blind,
today yours, yesterday the indivisible. The vials,

We heard the rain and those
who were returning: each thing
in the calm of speaking

Steely forehead. Steely forehead.
When the sun comes up, you’ll have it quenched.
You feed with me among the sky’s black chains.

it will comprehend everything
with the struggle in the room, the imploring
look and then:

Now she is unadorned
and the years come to pass, in handfuls,
with the wit of shears and

Only this growing
indifferent to the glance and full
of what one has seen

even if the desire
is to believe in everything at once
uttering a quiet, intense thanks