Without Which the Future Would Be Pure Myth

Enormous cloud, nimbus around
That newborn infant’s fontanelle,
Nearly innumerable

Ways in which the baby could end
At any moment in the next
One hundred spins around the sun—

A nebula of possible
Extinctions which will whittle
Down to only one. Miracle,

If miracle means anything,
That from the swarm of ways to die
Each child will receive only one

While each guaranteed to get one,
The anchor of all futures fixed
To the floor of all existence.

Meanwhile, often up to the last,
The cradle of the heartbeat bobs
As if adrift to destiny

As any Moses or Sargon
Floating like a duck in the reeds,
But not, not adrift, well-anchored

To that guarantee, don’t know where
And don’t know when, but it’s down there,
Singular, miracle, future.