Thinking of a child soon to be born, I hunch down among friendly sand grains.... The sand grains love a worried man-- they love whatever lives without force, a young girl who looks out over her life, alone, with no map, no horse, a white dress on. The sand grains love whatever is not rushing blindly forward, the mole blinking at the door of his crumbly mole Vatican, and the salmon far out at sea that senses in its gills the Oregon waters crashing down. Something loves even this planet, abandoned here at the edge of the galaxy, and loves the child who floats inside the Pacific of the womb, near the walls, feeling the breakers roaring.
(from What have I ever lost by dying?: Collected prose poems. Harper Collins Publishers, 1992.)
Labels: poetry, robert bly