These things we become attached to

 
 
These things we become attached to.
Like our children’s gifts and imagined futures
That are our own desires,
Not theirs.

Like the scent and smoothness of a woman,
Or the hard sensuality of a man,
That are our own desires
And only maybe theirs.

So what is a desire?
Like waking in the morning
And looking out at dripping grey
And therefore wanting?
Or rather knowing some hardcore
Need that can’t be cleanly declared?

We spend so much time wanting,
The wet warmth of a woman,
Or the firm guidance of a man,
The better thing that is theirs,

But so we miss the gentle happening all around us
That by its neglect declares the true nature
Of our real desires
As it all tries quietly to satisfy in a taken for granted way.

This area is supposed to be personal.
Yet it isn’t.
We all know this as we share
The same warts and wants
And shames and doubts,
And cry quietly into our pillows at night.

Desire reigns in three kingdoms,
That of the flesh
And that of the heart
And that of the mind.
Pulled three ways thus we’re bound
Always to be trying to find
Some utopian compromise that
By cold mathematical law
Is unlikely to come our way.
Like some small slippery thing wending through
An always changing liquid sea world
That shifts and carries us whatever way.

Some small times we cross a coincidence
Of circumstance that makes our heart leap
And our minds to find some rhythm
In the otherwise inscrutable chaos
That we swim through.

Good luck my friend
And I hope to see your light
Shimmering through my dark,
As I wend my way and maybe
We’ll find some coincident desire
That blends our paths.
 
 

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