I was wrong
when all those nights
I lay hours with my eyes
too well adjusted
to the darkened room
thinking of myself
as impatient. Thinking
it is true that I am anxious
to find all I have never found –
but happiest yet I am
in the dream and design
of the moments before I do. Eventually
inside I am, I am
inside these enactments I hum
silently like a prayer
I am in no hurry to realise
I will answer on my own. Eventually
In the morning
I am not the same
I like to think
I am, but I am not.
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