To be so close, the frustration of reaching
out and finding yourself as you were
yesterday, and the day before, ready
for something to enter your life like a wind
bursting through the keyhole and upsetting
the dishes in the sink foaming in soap
and flinging pottery to the floor, and you
bursting into uncountable wet shards
on the carpet, and the tile, and the curtains
torn loose from your windows gazing out
at the harsh white glow of millions of people
in their homes or pumping through
the streets under a sweaty moon, you imagine
this thing bursting in like a howl, and you
want only to say now, now to something
that doesn’t knock, that you have already
empowered to enter so many times in the damp
light of your bedroom, saying soon, soon,
but your hands keep finding yourself,
coming up empty no matter how ready.

-Matt Muth