Happy my heart and happy the whole world
would be were I to open up my eyes,
release my heart from lidded blindness, and
see how the night is fragile. I would be
happier than when night sank in my tomb,
happier than the hole impressed that time,
happier than that day—and than the cold
and heiroglyphic ear, the world before.
But night is the night I love, my happy cold
source and the edge of her eyes, whose hands are cold.
If I carried her along, into a day
that might depend on me, how could she hold
onto me even as that day grew on,and ready for a birth to breathe upon?
by Annie Finch