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?