i am looking for something, i know it.
a book maybe, a sign, an act of wonder.
a particular leaf pointing north, then a rock,
then an abstract painting hanging over the front door
of a house i've never seen before.
i am looking for the deer in my backyard to come
close enough to kiss my cheek. i am listening
for the sound of bees, aiming in a flurry
toward an Eden of pollen. I am watching the road
for an old woman who will call out to me and say
mysterious, delusional things i will understand perfectly.
i am waiting for the breeze to blow in and ruffle
the papers on my desk as if they were runes,
and then, by this new geometry, i will be made happy.
i will be certain with everything, and everyone.
but who am i to ask for such mystical direction,
a narrow spotlight, for an upstairs window to dabble
its sill with carcasses and remind me of what life doles out
if you wait too long? who am i to listen for the lighthouse call,
to reach for a steady hand to steer me through the fog?
what opportune magic am I passing these hours to witness?
what holy moment will leap on my shoulders and gather
the tangle of reins nesting there?
outside, the night is moonless and still.
it is so dark and infinite.
i can barely make out my hands in front of me,
but i do.