It is not the dreamer who longs for a heft of pain
to come & give life meaning or take it away.
It is not boredom either, but a breed of anxiety
born in doubt that desires that touch of disaster.
But the levees hold the flood.
The June rise was gone before July arrived.
It wasn’t sadness exactly, but a bit of secret disappointment
when the benches rose up out of the river once again.
Still, there are no ducks and no leftover bread.
Only driftwood birds bailing to the bridge
at that instinctual instant, the last,
though there is never really any danger.
It’s too early to still be sleeping. Wake.
The day will make its pain, or shake it.
