where shall we put this
gift, which fate has wrapped
in new leaves
and sealed
with the dark startle
of the hare’s gaze? where
shall we fit it? where keep
it safe? between
great stones fitted knife-blade close,
under some restless
mountain, or in a mirror
where no one has yet looked?
do not try to fit it anywhere:
there is nowhere it belongs.
we must fit ourselves, instead,
into whatever space it leaves unfilled
(though there is nowhere it has left unfilled)
