Presence versus Hope

after Emily Dickinson & Baruch Spinoza

A thing with feathers 

flies away. 

Hope is fast,

a player, a con. 

What we need is slow.

Trophies mount the shelves

of the quick, but we can only say

we hardly knew them. 

What we know is slow. 

It took a long time to drag rocks

into art. To arrange stones 

the size of desire 

into a temple, we have to befriend

what we did today. Errands,

nakedness, getting by. 

What you are is enough, even

scrappy, hard edged,

small motions go. The gesture of your hands

at the sink, water shining—

is no illusion waiting—

everything is you.