The Endless Hunt

I am full up with wanting.

Mine is not a frothing desire,

latte foam spilling over the rim.

My wanting does not

bubble on my lips,

effusive, but neither is it steady,

not a rumbling pull-crank

tug, hook wedged in me, closing

the gap between me and meaning

to a heave-ho rhythm.

My wanting is not a craving—

I do not salivate over

the warm-corn smell

of that baking morsel,

and perhaps never have I known

a notched-arrow-aiming,

eyes-squinting,

background-scenery-fading,

holy-grail-hunting

sort of wanting.

– – –

My wanting

is like a room.

A room of phantoms gorging

on their own drifting echoes,

a space both empty and

cramped, conjuring shelves

traversable only by ladder,

puffed full of books

I'll die before reading.

Some days I close the door on it.

In earnest I trace the lines

of some other new map,

only to find myself halfway

deflating, peering down

into a compass in a blackout zone,

(that needle just spinning),

and still I carry

that tall-pines-in-all-directions,

frayed-boots, small-slice-of-sky

sort of wanting.

A sort-of wanting.

A wanting

I want to sort through,

tomorrow.