It is as if water and leaves were muddling at the storm drain,
And I have come to realize
That everything is not enough.
Even here it is all both having and wanting,
And it is as if each bow drawn across the strings were sawing across the heart,
Making a new course through which this desire can run.
It is as if my blood has always run too slowly;
It is as if I had been a bronze bust, darkening,
Against copper trees and blue-washed sky.
It is as if my ear heard nothing before
This harmony—Suttree, tell me,
Are the planets rounder? Can knots be tied in the wind?
Here, it is how we thought riding horses would be,
And us high and weightless and mighty;
It is how running down a steep hill is,
And us frail and all too heavy.
Satisfied that this is everything, I am satisfied:
Everything is not enough.