On Longing

If growing old is a growing 
into a less fraught relationship with the world,

I don't feel it—not yet. Will we still be here
to witness that arc of the universe as it bends

only toward light, as it props up every crumbling
wall with a trellis of jasmine flowers, the kind

that always stop me in my tracks with their heady
scent when I'm walking down the street near

a café whose name, in Latin, means It's all my fault
or I am to blame? I wish taking public responsibility

for a wrongdoing were as easy as saying I'd like one
iced pistachio rose latte with oatmilk to go. I wish we

could follow the arc of our own longings and know where
they'll come to rest in a just universe, in this lifetime.

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