Coming, Coming

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COMING, COMING


What you’re after is just around the corner

of wherever you’ve arrived. Or,

say instead that what you’re hungry for—


the shadowy craving in the famished hours

of morning—is not in the refrigerator

or the pantry, unless it’s the refrigerator


you imagine in the house around the corner.

You might say that what you really desire   

is not the touch of the stranger you’re lusting after


on a train, but the tendrils of their odor 

as they brush past, smile, then disappear

forever around the bend. You know this, of course, 


you who have found again and again

the barbecue joint on the other end 

of town to be an insufficient antidote


to quell the inner gnawing roused

by the evening smell of wood smoke

as the air crisps and the light begins to balk, 


who can’t understand but can’t deny

why something in you wants to take a bite of the baby 

in your arms because you just can’t hold it close


enough. You've seen the tree in the distance

and cried because of course it was, but also since

you knew it must open up and consume you


if you were ever really to get there,

that drawing near to touch its bark

or fingering its leaves just wouldn’t suffice.


These metaphors will bring us 

close enough, but still, no cigar 

will deliver a rolled-tight answer 


to the question that the smell incites

in a cafe, or lingering on a flannel shirt. 

So peace to you as we sift through 


the pieces for the perfect fit. If you 

find me old and still looking for it, 

puzzled, please remind me to be patient, 


sit tight as the evening settles in. Tell me 

until we both believe it, the looked-for

light is just around the corner.

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