Note to Self

You can’t save the world
in it’s baffling enormity–
oceans, rainforests.
Or your beautiful friends
in their homes this evening
reading books, drinking
wine, worrying about money
& children & did they fuck
it all up years ago. Your mom
& dad can’t be saved–
assuming you’d want to.
Your spouse. Your own kids.
The days hush away
like a sleeper breathing,
like a box of baby teeth
you rattle, like a scribbled
drawing on a fridge
the hand that held the crayon
can’t remember. Hold anything
to the light a minute:
you can’t save it, only witness
its burning. That thing in you
that wants to save and be saved–
that quiet, sad, scared thing:
hold it to the light.