damn it, sit still

Damn it, sit still

I’ve tired of simply glimpsing it in homeless men

or bird formations, feeling it

in brooding sunlight on my forehead, the chill
of bare feet on the concrete stoop. It's wearisome,

this knowledge that

it's dancing in plain sight around
life's snowy fields while I am bound

to only see its footprints. Meanwhile, I taste

it in a turkey-melt

on toasted rye,

see glimpses on my ride

through Broad St. after work before it's gone again. I'm not

ungrateful for the times

I taste it in an egg with perfect salt,

the paperback

with folded edges in

the bottom of the bag,

but oh, just once, to look it in the eye. 
The blue and green

and purple shapes are beautiful, but how I’d like

to cast off this kaleidoscope and see the light.