Between this longing and that drifts a poem. It has a Sunday
inside it. Morning newspaper in
your hands. News that is the cosmos
of yesterday. Sometimes I shift the world to the oblivion of me;
I believe my aches matter to whomever;
I know the comet whose fall we saw last night
has nothing to do with my choke.
Why should I waste my time
memorising its name?
Instead, I go to the lake side and watch
the waters trap the cloud reflection.
I am torn open like a page of dusk.
What I don’t say, sometimes this life I call mine,
desires something it possesses, to be taken away.
The possession of it, like a bitter seed at a fruit
center. Something necessary for life to move along
time. How I mistake it with a loneliness that is not
about how I fill a room with those I say I have loved
at some point of life or shall at a very close or far
future. But more a want for
the vulnerable angle between wonder and balance.