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