You have begun
to see—
to see—
not everything
that shines
reflects the light
of purpose,
nor is everything
your outreached fingers encounter
necessarily there
for you
to use.
The moon—for instance,
looks delicious
down here,
like the plump fruit
of heaven's
of heaven's
infinity tree—ripe
and rolled
out into plain view
only for you;
when it's just
miles
miles
and miles
of unconstructive gray dust—
no lavender mountains
no sweet cream
no lavender mountains
no sweet cream
butter, no old jazz,
no breathable atmosphere.
And yet, still
you cannot keep
from wondering—if all
of the pain
from way
back then
from way
back then
might somehow,
someday
return—and
apologize to
you.
you.