It never comes like they say it does,
never sweet, never tender,
never cold, never dramatic;
like a Freudian, like a dragon,
like a light, like a ghost
or any other symbol
on the list of bad explanations;
never like anything you want,
never like a dream of soft flesh and never endings,
never like the conscious slips we make
after we’ve determined how we live;
never hard, never easy,
never clear, never muddy;
never any one thing we can say,
but always many things we can’t.
Clear day, mid-winter.
Cold wind blew up the ridge.
Hands in pockets,
I stared down at burnt ground.
It never comes like they say it does.