Where once I was a deep canyon of joy, a receptacle
for happiness in great billowing armloads,
I now hold it in a rose-rimmed china cup,
drinking quickly, savoring the delicate sips,
knowing the sweetness is a passing pleasure,
like your hand upon my face.
You are teaching me to want less and less, as you
have always done, so that now I want but one thing,
the one you cannot grant me, nor can the stars.
So many things I need to be true and not spun
from spider silk, things I cannot see clearly
looking through the cracked glass in a window
where it is always dusk. How can you know
what is real if I do not? Is our story still emerging
or is it a tapestry woven of finished threads?
I watch the silver stream of memories
pass too swiftly for your hand to dart out
and grab them as they go by.