It is enough to be here,
innocently scheming, happily ignorant.

It is enough to breathe air
that is treacherous with
pollen, cold, and death,
and live;

it is enough
because there is nothing else —
no future despite our plans,
and no past,

only the air going in and going out,
and the heart, which beats out
all our present moments,
concealed within the fastness
of this bony fortress
like some buried ruby.