I grow a poem,
not much dripping
yesterday’s kindness,
even less tomorrow’s crimes,
though all our memories are
interchangeable treasures,
and many indescribable futures
await my yesterday:
a sky at dawn in the heart of a plum,
the drawn bow of a snowing moon,
precious the palm of the hand
on which I have carved
affectionately all the names of God
who is in spite of anyway