by Jeff Oaks

Once, what I didn’t want I didn’t see. 

I might have killed myself for history.

Now there’s hardly anything I don’t want

and want can mean any touch at all,

any shift of the light toward my shadow-

making self, any little a lot of such

beauty, and all suffering, temporary.

To touch any part of the dance, until 

that wince and crack of the sudden handshake

out wandering with my quiet dog between dark 

and constellations opening overhead.