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.