Time too is afraid of passing, is riddled with holes
through which time feels itself leaking.
Time sweats in the middle of the night
when all the other dimensions are sleeping.
Time has lost every picture of itself as a child.
Now time is old, leathery and slow.
Can’t sneak up on anyone anymore,
Can’t hide in the grass, can’t run, can’t catch.
Can’t figure out how not to trample
what it means to bless.
For Peggy Munson
That you must accept
what you cannot prevent. That fear inverts
the meaning of success. That you can be fearless
when fear is all you have.
That fear is all you have.
That you aren’t alone in loneliness,
there’s a whole world here,
a pregnant, fascinating glimpse,
all stomach and hips,
of the life-creating love
you’re finally sick enough to feel.
That that glimpse can't stop you from melting
into the futures you fear
you will and will not have.
That you have, you still have,
everything you need to live:
night, ice, plums, a lap and a laptop, a name, a parent,
whipped cream, gossip, steaming plates
of life and death.
That this is the end of the world.
That you will survive it.