Dave Bonta's "Limited" is a tiny poem that admits how little we can be sure of. It opens with a strange confession: what the speaker knows, they know to be false. Certainty has already collapsed, and the speaker seems to accept that.
The second stanza turns toward something warmer. Things "in the hand" refuse us, meaning they slip away, resist being understood, or won't be fully possessed. Oddly, this gives the speaker comfort. Perhaps it's a relief that the world stays bigger than our grasp, and that nothing can be pinned down for good.
The last lines are the most playful. A thought, the speaker says, should be worth only "one wing," not enough to fly on its own. Ideas, then, are partial and unfinished, and we shouldn't trust them too much. The mood is quiet, wry, and humble. The poem doesn't mourn its limits so much as settle into them, with a light, almost gentle humor.