Waiting

Waiting 

— for …

And just like that it is today 

again, and I am holding her this tenderly 

not because I know how soft

the quivering crown of morning’s scalp,

but because I have a splinter

from shirking my work gloves

as I tried to raise what’s sturdy 

enough to shed time, to reach back

and uncrinkle the tossed out

blueprint of tomorrow. Remember 

me not for this dreamer’s endeavor,

how half-awake you found me 

stumbling through the moment, through 

every moment, but rather for how resilient 

I proved in my forgetting, like a man with dementia 

re-reading the book, delightfully 

surprised again, again, again

at how the sting of these invisible slivers

loosens our grip enough to cradle 

even the hope of breath itself.