Waste

Were it not for the knowledge we’ve since gained,

we’d dance as we did when we were children—

trying to separate the meaningless 

arms from the body with spins and thrashes—  

the grief that this nostalgia too

indicates only youth and foolishness— 

a measure equal to the doubt of this 

nostalgia. If we spun and thrashed ourselves 

maybe then we’d be free of it—if not

we’d be older, desiring instead 

a different kind of music, one 

that makes no demands, that issues no swells

in the already limited, aching body—

its simple want for quiet—for dusk becoming 

night—for the shrouding of aches and changes.