why is it never enough

anymore to be here in this place?

no matter where here is:
wrapped deep in warm blankets late into the day
crowded in a corner on the 1 train
eavesdropping in columbus circle
museum-hopping
in the shadows of skyscrapers
or home, even, though I haven't been home

I'm learning that I've forgotten how to stop look be.

the place where everything is yes.

no, I haven't found it yet.
it sounds wonderful though.
but maybe I'm on the road which leads there?

maybe it's only in creation:
in books or movies.
music.
pens and brushes.

or maybe it's just around the dinner table,
in laughter and conversation.

or gardens in the airy light of morning,
wide empty fields lit by starlight.

cummings thought it was springtime.

personally, I think it might be on the other side of the moon.
you know, the side you can't see.
the side that is all mine.