do I always reside in the awkward--
do I long yet stop at obtaining,
search and stop at finding?

do I live in fear of having, knowing--
full of desire,
mastered by restraint?

or am I only incapable of knowing?

do I live in the realm of incompletes--
the book, almost read
the poem, almost written
the question almost answered?

my own questions, it seems,
find no words for other minds.
they only twist and swirl--anxious
never given the privilege of resolution.

yet all of times in all exist
so I cannot say
whether in past or future
my answer waits
to breach the now.
coursing up, against the current of time
or on some static rock awaiting my arrival

some have said the answer with me resides
but I have searched all my pockets
and all I found were three pennies
and a stirring straw.