Watching by Tyler Mortensen

Stalks of flowers in the small garden
outside your window
bend quietly, alternating the shapes
of empty space

you stare into—

What makes you think that this world
is not what you’re looking for?

Dusk settles in the street
and among the gold crocuses,
comfortable in the gathering dark
that pales their bodies.

You remember summers before, each blooming
with the clamor and the clatter
of celebration, with the promise
of impossible things; each

great body lying over the earth
like a calm animal
while you waited, intensely,
for something more.

What was it you wanted? Why,
even now, do you stare out
into the night, as if
in the face of the lion,
hoping the sky will arrange itself
into some answer for your despair,
your disappointment?

Do you not see what the sky—
soft violet darkening
between the stalks—is already?

That, already, your life

is an impossible thing?