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?
