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.