Oh, under it, under all the vestiges

of what if, what old boards and

dust and fragments, but these

 

That pepper the bed clothes with

less than perfect sleep, tossing

and turning under the weight of it

 

This reality, packed up in numerous

boxes ~ to-go for this, to-go for that

under packing it, as What Is is

 

So much more yet where does at-

tention, at tension, go ~ no resting.

Others instead bring beauty, grace.

 

But no, these old things beg to be

of Use. Or is it that ? Perhaps but

what if, what if, if what, if What Is

 

Were already of Use? Bizarre order.

This memory of tossing and turning

now folds into the voice of the light

 

Opening out over crystalline hoarfrost

warming and dazzling just as it is

this juxtaposition of dour and dulcet.

 

The rigid supposing, how does it serve?

As if what if were magic, elixir of

fortitude, grace, wonder, and not burden.

 

Leave it open, don’t pretend resolve.

Clustering what ifs wait in the cold

not sure of their fate. What if they knew?