LONGING?
Waiting for nothing, beneath the trees:
a few boys playing stickball start singing.
The low sky, clouded over, races its dark,
coastal-storm clouds overhead : branching
and breaking the shadows in a dizzying motion
of a newer form of stop-time. Games are to be
played. Yet, what am I still waiting for?
-
My longing wears a step-coat of wide diversity.
Here, the buttons are blue; there, the clasps are
bright red. What am I to do? I try reaching out
for something I ache for - I cannot reach, it is
all too far off. A man's reach should exceed
his grasp or what's a Heaven for?
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