Pretenders

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After the aftermath 
of the cisterns quieting,
a moth flutters free 
then drops into the nest 
of sounds that crickets weave.

all of our away-words 
wait the gathering of ground.
between our usual state 
of lost and found.

we hesitate in leisure, 
presuming to douse our thoughts 
with memory’s perfume, 
intoxicate our wilderness 
with stupor, 
known to render children mad 
and madmen to surrender.

Some call us, pretender.
So light a breeze upon us
one could scratch to catch 
a tick of something licking 
at the bottom of your mind.

You cannot find a trace. 
It has no face.
Some believe it has no place.

There is no there from where 
you feel you are 
and though you wish upon a star 
or carry moonbeams in a jar
no ordinary miracle can reach that far.

For far is work, when close is easy; 
now and then are whence;
and where you were 
is where you are; 

all else 

is just pretense.

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