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 present 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 we’d be free of it—if not

we’d be older, desiring instead 

for the body at present to remain, 

with its limits, aches, widenings—its simple want

for sweet cake and fruit, for dusk becoming 

night—a widening body to share it.