Dear future, sometimes I see you

  
in the brief instance before my beloved

wakes, or when, looking into the hallway
mirror there is a fleeting oval of light.

We were taught not to desire
knowledge of you, for like time, you are

a mystery only God is supposed to know
how to unravel. At midnight, rain

drums on the roof and lightning flicks
its many tongues across the blinds.

In childhood, I used to think the night
sky was a dark ocean wanting to spill

over its rim. Dear future, you are coming
toward all of us; in fact, you are almost

here. Daily I address you and bribe
you with prayer; I pay what I can

toward hope of some kindly fate
whose price might be beyond my reach.

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