by Lee Stern
I don’t see any need for me to go to the ocean today.
Other people can go there.
And see if the glasses they left
the last time they were there are still there
in the same bag they were carrying with them when it started to rain.
And sure, that is, if they want, they can do that all day long
and not even have to ask me for my permission.
Because my permission, you’ve probably figured out by now,
really doesn’t mean that something important’s going to get done
when they say that it has to get done.
My permission is like something you left at the edge of the sea
when you forgot what else it was that accounted for your priorities;
when you forgot
to tell me that the unsung lenses you threw in your eyes
made accurate rainbows
dissolve within the axle of your will.