Etude

"To be scattered—
desire luminous
and in tatters—"
                  ~ Robin Coste Lewis


This same desire grows
stronger each year instead
of finally being sated—
the condition

of those like us who took
a chance and stepped across
a threshold, before understanding
how thresholds multiply, ache

following ache. The port recedes, 
and the end of the runway recedes
but the bright edge of cities
cannot eclipse the darkness.

Those who have never had
to leave think of longing 
as a bright, sure progression
toward fullness.

Those who have never been
left behind don't bend
instinctively toward
a secret wound.

A voice; the scent
of roasted corn or the oil
of oranges. Something
accordions into mirage.

I can arrange this kingdom
so it fits entirely on a teaspoon,  
float it like a petal on bath water.
At the end of the winding

mountain road, the houses
huddled together come
into view. Have I lived
everything that is 

supposed to be my life?
I am told I need to be
patient, but when was I
not patient? Rain

has trained me
to be quiet, to undertand
how even a stone can 
wear away with time. 

Still, I turn my face 
toward sunlight, toward 
what gleams with no bitterness, 
without indifference.