Where We Could Stay

Give us the end of time,
the swish of fringe at the end of a belt
which disappears over lips of basalt:
each thread catching a sun, the whole lost
before gathered into the eye.

Give us permission to think
that someday the apple's bruises will heal,
that hands will stop trembling, that
this music will come plain to the ear.
Give us a sprig of thyme to break

and to remember the first day
we came into this land, the way
your hair fell over your fingers
when you turned to ask
if this was where we could stay.