Was what Keats felt welling up in his veins
what Moses felt in his throat
looking across the Jordan at the Promised
Land before God folded over his body
and put it somewhere remote and longing
is the way the light comes through the
kitchen window just above the sink
hitting the apples on the counter; the arch
of her back as she bends away from the viewer:
heaven, meaning the actual thing must stay
far away, must elude us, so that it might remain
sweet, might not sour in the watering mouth.
Some, some get what they want and still
rejoice. Most of us are not that great.
We can only love the shadow of the
thing. We can only hope.