Palm Curve

Cuddled in the heart of your hand,
soft hand, warm hand,
I do not feel the meaningless drops
of life drizzling,
do not hear its jackal-thunder
nor see its lynx-lightning
in the dark.

And if the world should burst tonight
in a giant mushroom flame,
I would not notice –
snuggled in the nook
of your gentle palm
where I belong,
it seems I may exist
forever.

We are all alike –
gently dozing in the nook
and the noose
of borrowed
nuclear time.