Poem on What Is, with a Line from Rilke

You said: to stay is to be nowhere at all.             
            I recall how children steeple their

fingers and look inside as if to see themselves
             occupying a space preserved from any

future or past. But the object of the game
             is always to pry the secrets out

of any circle that stands for the world, or
             the heart, or whatever draws a line

to separate what’s known from what is only
             still rustling outside a door or window,

daring you to look. Perhaps you’re right after all:
             nowhere is only another name for

the present, curled up inside all the moments
             we think we’ve used up or lost or grieved. 

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