There are these ways to hold the future:
abstractly—i.e. a babe in arms. Or
concretely: inhale. Or those are
the same. The baby is flesh and potential.
The breath is fuel for the next breath; it is
sustenance for the present, which is as 
figurative as the children being
our future. What’s real? 

My stupid little heart won’t break up
with the world, ideas big as the earth’s own
respiration. No matter the bruises living makes,
I savor the music and machine. What’s not to love
of what mechanics make these meat sacks work?

In a human heart, the left lung is deficient
where is overlies the heart. The cardiac notch is
more divot than cavity. Like the curve between
the shoulder and the chin. 

I climb into my husband’s lap, place my
forehead to his neck, where his pulse persists
like ocean waves. How many? How long?
No one could say. The future: momentum
undefined. Today is a good day to be.