The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.

— W.B. Yeats

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searching

searching

an abundance

of images

trickling

down optic nerves

tiny

phantom fingers

pricking

teasing

hungry for more

muscles straining

stretching

shuffling

through streets of pages

dirty and fresh-faced

traipsing down steps

trailing

a thumb

along edges

waxy and worn

colored dots

of pavement

each foot barely ahead

of the other and then

tripping

stumbling

too eagerly

skating

skipping stones

across infinite spaces

I don’t just want to be in the present

—yes, the present, too

but also

many ages all at once, swallowed, whole and in half-measures

by a great, big, engulfing wave

all the times I

never spoke, always talked, and you never saw

how foolish I was, how wonderful you were

how brief we both existed

together and barely as one