You may find it, and know it when you find it—I can’t tell
Where the world begins or ends, but I seek both still,
Laughing while I look, imminent failure, eminent me.
There’s that rocking horse reasoning, that situation
Of no point. It’s like the rose you want to own: cut the stem
And you kill it. It may bloom for you, open in its grief,
But it’s lost to its purpose, and you to true knowledge.
It’s a simile for time, or maybe thought. Layers on layers
Of minutes—…—what you aren’t now, you might be later,
If you leave it be, let it be, and let it come to the blossoming.
