I get tired in the evenings.
During the day, I use a candle
to read an egg’s veins.
I look at a map of red until I reach
a verdict about birth:
Whether it happens or not.
I have to be careful.
I’ve learned, through practice and with patience,
to come at them slowly,
like a sunrise.
Alone and blank.
Things change once I know what’s there.
Their fragility shifts
and I don’t take them far,
those that still sit working in the evenings.
It’s not a specific art, really.
I liken it to garden reading.
The gardener sees in the broadside of leaves
how good he is.
How good he’s become.
I do the same.
When I watch a flame
light the mind of a dull egg,
I wait until the shadows tell me
something about loss.
Something about how the way we care for a thing
influences how much that thing will care.
The ones who leave, I don’t think on long.
I know I failed them in a way I can’t explain,
and so I let their leaving speak
unlit by my dim mind.