sometimes there is a weight
to waiting, heavy as a rock
resting, wavewet, in your
palm, that is, until you take
your three steps, your small
alloted action and let the wait
begin to build again;
another heartbeat pumps by
and everything becomes boiled
down to folder paper in a pocket,
raffle tickets without any waiting
prizes lurking behind them,
near notarized note cards, that
strange economy built for just the
minutes and minutia of evenings.
at last—scissors seem always
to come last, shearing fates cast
by fingers until you slip out, again,
into a starless night, any heaven
drowned by the Cities, except,
perhaps a spectral moon, tissue thin
and barely bright, under which you
can leave behind, as is sometimes
best, the one you were pretending
to be.
