Now is perpetually new:
My hands in dishwater soap,
Or two hawks locked in mews
In air that inhales, exhales hope —
Nothing is always out of scale,
Nor is every metaphor stale.
There’s no trick to all of this,
No existential treatise.
A moment is a moment’s kiss
We perpetually miss.
The dishes are clean and dried,
No matter how hard we tried
To ignore them in their dirty sink:
Little that we knew we now think.
