We are the frail ones. We’re the feather pillows
the other kids used for their fights, the pencils
they threw across the room. We wouldn’t
even learn to walk until they made us; we said the
the grass was like needles under our feet. As adults
we still wait around for blue princes, still stand on the roof
expecting to fly. We’re the ones who can’t
hold down a job, who cry so much it seems we
were made of rain, who give our last coins
to the tap dancers on the street corner
until we’re the tap dancers on the street corner.
And you cross to the other side when you see us:
like funhouse mirrors we show you the truth —
that the world isn’t meant to be what you’ve made it,
that beneath your muscles you are nothing but need.

Passion Contents 

In the first parallel universe
I took my father’s advice
studied pharmacy at the University of Buffalo
moved to New Jersey to work for Pfizer
and have lived here ever since.
 
In another one
Sister Emiliette managed to convince me
during the eighth grade retreat.
Now I awaken each morning at six,
put on the white and black, go down
to chapel, take my place at the organ.
In May I’ll make my final vows.

In the next I came of age
amid the lilacs of Christ Church Meadow
watching the spring regatta.
After one year of walks among the domes and spires
I decided to stay.
Now I live in a row house on Botley.
I’m writing my thesis on Milton
and in the summer I punt down the Cherwell
singing so loud that the tourists give me dirty looks.

In another, the backpacker from Seattle
whose name I’ve long since forgotten
wasn’t there to grab me
as I started to cross the midnight Madrid street
blind to the car that tore the night in two.
I never made it home from that trip.

And in still another
I’ve never existed.
I was conceived as an idea, but got no further
so now, like all other ideas, I float
like a seed torn out from a dandelion’s wig
not asking where the wind will set me down
nor when I’ll get to choose a universe.

Passion Contents

In the first parallel universe
I took my father’s advice
studied pharmacy at the University of Buffalo
moved to New Jersey to work for Pfizer
and have lived here ever since.

In another one
Sister Emiliette managed to convince me
during the eighth grade retreat.
Now I awaken each morning at six,
put on the white and black, go down
to chapel take my place at the organ.
In May I’ll make my final vows.

In the next I came of age
amid the lilacs of Christ Church Meadow
watching the spring regatta.
After one year of walks among the domes and spires
I decided to stay.
Now I live in a row house on Botley
I’m writing my thesis on Milton
and in the summer I punt down the Cherwell
singing so loud that the tourists give me dirty looks.

In another, the backpacker from Seattle
whose name I’ve long since forgotten
wasn’t there to grab me
as I started to cross the midnight Madrid street
blind to the car that tore the night in two.
I never made it home from that trip.

And in still another
I’ve never existed.
I was conceived as an idea, but got no further
so now, like all other ideas, I float
like a seed torn out from a dandelion’s wig
not asking where the wind will set me down
nor when I’ll get to choose a universe.

Wild Transitions Contents