In the spaces of my sockets (shoulder
sockets, that is, not eye)
the dust of all the things I’ve reached for
collects; the joints are loath to return
to face the withered evidence of so many bursts of hope.
No, they prefer to float away, striving for that bit of extra stretch
that will let me grasp those
teasing, nearly there, fluttering dreams.
I wouldn’t mind, but the sinew is wearing thin
and I need my arms to work properly
to embrace those bubbly moments of now.