If this poem were awake now it would know it's got a beginning and where its beginning is,
but, if I know this poem at all, I believe it would pretend that it began
not at the top of this page but rather somePlace,
maybe in Pennsylvania among the tall walnut trees.

It would wish it had white arms that glimmer longly and legs that spindle lithey out.
But it would know that in reality its limbs are
soft and rounded in too much flesh.

It would know
it has a middle and
that its middle used to
attract favoring glances when
peeking shameless from under white
summer shirts but now is grown wide from too much wine
and so favoring glances are now appreciated for their rarity like
the thing that chased them away.

It would spend much time ruminating
(when no one was near to notice)
about things it should have said with wit and craft and grace
but couldn't
or didn't.
And it would wonder if it had been wise to leave that question unanswered:
Didn't I?
or
Couldn't I?

If it were awake now this poem would know
it must end and that its best end would mean not lasting too long sick
nor ending before fully becoming with meaning:
not too abrupt
ly.

But for now it still sleeps and dreams of waking.