enough that
life is long, but
life isn't
half as long
as desire is.
How long
can you sit there,
still as a parked car
watching it thunder
like a cavalcade
of freight cars
that scrolls on
forever as you
idle at the crossing?
And after that,
are there really any
words you can gasp
that could process
the experience
of burning in this fire
as the future you covet
proceeds to
outlast you—that is,
without also
not consuming it
entirely?
