So that each is its own, now—each has fallen, blond stillness. Closer, above them, the damselflies pass as they would over water, if the fruit were water, or as bees would, if they weren't somewhere else, had the fruit found already a point more steep in rot, as soon it must, if none shall lift it from the grass whose damp only softens further those parts where flesh goes soft. There are those whom no amount of patience looks likely to improve ever, I always said, meaning gift is random, assigned here, here withheld—almost always correctly as it's turned out: how your hands clear easily the wreckage; how you stand—like a building for a time condemned, then deemed historic. Yes. You will be saved.
From The Rest of Love by Carl Phillips. Copyright © 2004 by Carl Phillips. Reprinted by Farrar, Straus, & Giroux. All rights reserved.