By Lance Larsen
It is almost too much-the fingers
of sky, the hill like a great breast.
I want subtlety, the wonder of a moon
looking only like a moon, of things
unfolding slowly and meaning nothing.
I want to walk bare streets and pause
beneath an upstairs window of an old house
and say, with no conviction at all,
that inside a man named Bob is reading
magazines while his wife is bathing.
Tonight I want to swim in a pool
and not think of other pools,
just this one before me, how the water
slaps the edges and the green light colors
my arms and the bats swoop on insects.
I want to see flower stalks and clouds
and old cars and cats sliding across
grass without seeing myself.
I want to look at the stars and say
they are not worth their light
without being pulled into darkness.