almost enough

it is a conceit
I know
but hopefully a small one
I can’t help it because I half-suspect
that I am past my time
that there may be no more
that I am only what I see here
held before my eyes
a few lines in tiny chap-books
and journals and rags
there may be no more

this game of making stories is a wonder
called from mind to page
one moment there is nothing
and then
an opening line
a shape emerging into stanza
a moment in a lifetime caught
just like a photograph
it’s almost enough

but I am more hungry than that
I want to know that someone somewhere will read it
write back to say they saw the places that I saw
with their fingers marked the lines I drew on sand
or how I could have told the whole thing better
and that is almost enough

today I opened up a journal at the index
ran my finger down a line of names
I stopped beside one that’s quite familiar

it’s a conceit I know
and I hope it’s no more than a small one
but I believe that I am playing within  magic
and need to draw and hold my breath awhile
feel my heart beat faster
because my name is there
and my verse is there

I don’t know if it will happen again
but it’s almost enough

---

© Frank Prem, August 2002

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