Essential Tremor | The Walrus
If only it were that: a little
trembling in the hand. If we could tell
your leg be still and still it would. Be it-
self before we heard the news, reeling,
before the shift and the settle into restless
in bed, the shudder as you roll—
here and gone and here momentous
as aurora and nothing I can hold.
Ends always with me spoon-feeding
and push-chairing; the secret life
of drool which maybe isn’t half so bad as it looms;
in our room would gather the minuscule
beauties, for instance wind setting off the aspen,
every quaver in your lovely hand.