Turning and Waiting
What am I but an ironic turning
of this mind, now frosted,
from a short walk around the edge,
of the corner,
promising to never promise,
even as I do?
And even, as I do
then; within the spin,
of what I've seen,
passing shadows and looks,
along here and there,
past where fragments of dreams,
cool under their own clouds,
time, and stars.
Ah yes, my dreams, let us
ransom other people, the other people
outside the door.
We have a way to go. Didn't you feel how much was missed,
just waiting,
to let it go?
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