I wanted a poem to come out of my sadness,

but no poem came. I wanted a revolution

to come out of my burnout, but no revolution

came. I wanted a bird to fly through my open

window, but my window was closed. I wanted

sun on an evening when it was already dark.

I wanted just a bit of grief rather than despair.

&, in my shame, I wanted my childhood back.

I wanted to walk backward out of the room

where I kept my secrets. I wanted to say I’m hurt

before my hurt became a character trait I told

no one but myself. When I wanted unknowing,

I was given certainty, & when I wanted the hard

& fixed line, I was given mystery. Sometimes,

I wanted to give it all back, but to who, I wondered,

& how? I wanted a life to come out of my life,

but instead I was left with my life. All that wanting,

I think now, & still I woke this morning to light

& the memory of the time a bird did fly through

the open window of my apartment, &, scared

& senseless, shat all over the couch before leaving.

All that wanting, right? Sometimes it happens

& sometimes it doesn’t & sometimes it happens

worse. Make do, little friend I call myself. Walk

backward out of the room you have made out

of your wanting into the room of where you are.

The poem is here. The revolution, too. & love,

still, even in the evening, when light still shines.