Just Barely to the Brink

The fluency of fantasy –
the easiness of thought –
effortlessly letting whim
transmute into the wrought:

surely there’s a realm like this
somewhere within the cell
where all you’d have to do
is conjure wishes like a spell

to spin them via dream
into their faultless paradigms –
easy as iambic flow –
sweet as nursery rhymes –

want a plum? – then think of one:
you’ve got it in your hand –
make imagination make
your certainties expand –

as Juliet bestowed her breath
from her bright balcony
to realize her Romeo,
employ your alchemy –

and so you would, but when
you try in this odd circumstance
of having to haul flesh around –
into and out of pants –

this silly endless business
of gravity and age –
of working hard and sweatily
to reach out, and engage –

well, this is not exactly what
you signed on for, you think:
this taking all your life
to get just barely to the brink.




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