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?