By Daisy Roux
To think of the past is to think of the
blurry remains of the future which entrances us
in its desperate and fitful glory.
To wish for the imagined could-have-beens,
should-have-beens, is to count
the clouds between your fingers,
and to count the stars you tried to name.
The present, although brutal and arguably
banal in nature, offers overly ripe opportunities.
Think of the swollen, weeping nectar
you sucked from when you weaned yourself
off the acrid bitterness of a life imagined,
and instead swallowed the glowing nebula
of an emboldened future.