know that we know
how soon, how
benignly, how inexorably
you'll arrive,
still we turn
our faces to the sky
to gawk in surprise
at your arrival,
as though it were
the very first time—as though
we did not know
that we know
how long we have
languished here, stymied
by the poem
and pining for days
when the world
would receive us
into more than
just a waiting room;
when nothing
would seem necessary
except (perhaps)
contingency;
when the language
of flowers
would not just inform,
but truly overwhelm
the flowers
of language.
