of all the body,
the toes
like the blind wasp infants
in the nest of darkness
not quite ever seeming
most alive
to bear the weight they do,
the smallest one hardly without
a hint of claw
or even finger of an ape.
You could almost believe
there is no evolution
but that we are returning
to a kind of grace
in this life: Oh god, or sky creature,
or earth, whatever of creation is there,
thank you for this one
body part that sees so fortunately little
but bears so much
hiding there in the dark.
It doesn’t need to turn an eye
or ear. It is already a mystic in a cave,
in animal skin.
Little does it care for miracles.
It doesn’t even want to move by itself,
old, old grandmother
preparing in time to leave the body.