You could feel the desire that never rests
within what arrests it with every touch—I know.
You could even see everyone knowing
something about everything—ways to nowhere, it’s true.
You could still probably even sense something
beautiful at night—if only it mattered.
You might even find a girl smoking on a rooftop
regretting her light coat—ridiculous fucking boyfriend.
But now you can’t find or feel anything
anymore that doesn’t wound—or make you smile.
You could still take the middle path
moderating toward harmony—if it matters, I know.