When you look for something, you will never find it.
See, things move around, pushed hither and yon
by the pressure of searching eyes leaning against them,
straining eyes longing to wrap them in desire,
so they squirt thru our eye fingers slippery like fish
squirting thru the billowy tentacles of a hungry octopus.
And it’s sad, because you aren’t really looking for that thing.
No, what you groan for is that space, that yearning hollow place
in between the thing and your thoughts
in between that maelstrom between your ears
and the tableau between your fingers
which are sticky and messy and covered in paint.You’re looking for yourself, or rather the answer
bouncing back to you from another heart
instead of off of another…what? No, another who.
Because we live just this side of that fit, that meld,
And when we set off searching we end up over there…
on the far side of finding and still oh so hungry.
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