Happy

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