Shelving for now
my overarching fantasy of becoming
a mastermind of some esoteric
discipline to be held in secret
until it becomes necessary
for survival; mothballing
my own need
to be of some use and
turning instead to
pupation ahead of
a destined transformation
that may or may not happen: after all
cocoons and pupae may still die;
even at that penultimate moment
of incipient lives, nothing
promised is ever certain. Stepping
back from the personal edge
in this moment of grand, worldwide edge
to consider the folly
of my belief in my own indispensability
and to marvel at how final
it all feels and yet,
even so, I long
to break out and get free
of those larval virtues and vices
of my past; hoping that instead
when I do emerge, all those old marbles
will tumble out of my once-child hands
and all these games will end and then
whatever I am in that real instant
will be adequate at the least, more
than enough at the most, ready to be
valued, to extend time, to ground
a future where before there had been
only a flight, a vision
of improbably perfect wings.
