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.