What I'm Trying to Get My Hands Around

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WHAT I'M TRYING TO GET MY HANDS AROUND


The perfect pony is what’s left 

after I’ve twisted, crimped, and snapped 

her mop of toddler hair in wild 

shapes even Pollock would be proud

to make. Her mother laughs, knowing

the absence I'm after, and weaving

it together with dextrous fingers

leaves me here to wonder: Maybe after

enough poor poems the white space

between the words will follow suit and say

Okay, enough of this, and fed up at last

will venture to another hand to twist

them into what I’ve failed to pin. That day, what more 

             but to say again, Lord, there you are!

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