The day is a secret she cups between her hands,
sure to whisper away, unless it sways her drift
through domestic dances, smallnesses
swinging heavy on their hinges, opening this gift.
Her hands are bare but teeming,
find everywhere the shape of senseless joy
as the body her brain merely frees
fandangos! the muscles fantastical on the bones
“This welling over, please fall back inside,
keep me safe from the sun, from flights uncontaining,
outside my own skin, beyond my own gifts.”
Hope asks for what it has learned.
Hers is to contain a gift beyond reason.