Poly visited me this morning, sat upon my shoulder, and taunted me.
For just a slipping moment
It lingered in my hands.
I saw and felt it grain by grain
I knew it for what it was.
It sifted away from me,
And spitefully left little trace
But visions, feelings, dreams
Fragile, transient in my heart
No grains of crystalline perfection
To seal inside, as in a jar.
Not perfectly imprinted, sharply carved
Inscribed indelibly, static, unchanging; no
All that I have, a smudged mind’s lens
That aches for the clear recall
Of what I held in that slipping moment,
I wish for soldered memory
Impervious to holey-ness
Capturing forever the holiness
Of the perfect revelation
Briefly poured into my hands.
I write only what I have hoped
I trace onto paper
My transient, slipping-down moment, the
Perfect words, imperfectly expressed.
It is all I have.
What I held, has sprinted away
Leaving me desperately chasing
The memory of what I held.
It will have to be enough. . .