and hasn’t got the hang of it yet;
things keep slipping
through her tiny fingers
and i’m imprudently
melancholic, wondering how soon
she’ll need to learn
to just let them go.
then again
do we ever learn, in the end?
have we ever grasped anything
in the first place?
i’m not strong enough to hold you
against the world, or death,
or even tomorrow—still
i think,
i think
i would like to hold you anyway.