How fine the mind that can calculate
change and recognize destiny,
as if luck had something to do
with knowing, as if the lease
signed with the eyes closed
meant happiness, or even time
that's bearable, slow breaths exchanging
the currency that wanting spends,
and how fine that sedatives
and jewels exist, those slanted elegies.
So there are errands and hours
when you hear your own breath—
or feel my breath coming from within you—
and register the haunt of cicadas
summering under the porch. So there is time
spooking off into the wings.
These are going to be big surgeries, bloody
gauzes of conditions, when loss
must be measured, and then
there are the outcomes, the calls
that must be made. Wouldn't we all like to avoid
being the reason for anguish, to understand
why it's so easy to cut ourselves
on our own edges? Silent,
the responders. They might
have the answers, but they're not
telling, even when the vise grips
go for the nails. All that's left is to know
we will suffer through almost anything—
make sure to remember it well.
tuckova 
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