Wishing may be something

Wishing may be something quite distinct from what I wish for.

I wish I had a baby.

But I’m so unacquainted with the present,

I think so much in memories and hopes,

I hardly know, I can’t conceive, just now.



All of this is meaning—

what else is there to see with?

All of this is metaphor

and somewhere else is truth.



There is all of that to do

to survive, for example

to become, for example

But why do the shadows that the

shrubs dangle along the walk

give a sense of time still and now

and life the thing I’m breathing?



Today has taunted me

as propositions from behind my door

as wicked winks beyond my glass

suggestive nudges at my shoulder—

But has kept at all times

out the corner of my eye.