The Big Thing Resting Here

Then it sits here the present after all that hope, all that prediction, made of un-invented things, travels not ventured, unknown faces of strangers unmet, unborn solutions to the problem of love. I wish I remembered the dreams I made when I was young, before I tested the texture of the world and discovered the limits of passion and the failure of magic. In response to the crush, sweating out the fever. I am small and meek. Is this when I start to die? The little river dry, time marked with ritual, little struts on tiny stages.