I'm trying to grasp that thing in the periphery;
it's so poignant, I know, though I don't know
what it is. But God, it's so close, like
the city bus rolling down the road, when
you've stepped off the curb without
a left-right-left look. There's nothing so
tantalizing as a vague awareness. It's
a neatly threaded mystery, wanting
unraveling but, like in dreams, where
what is simple becomes complicated, my
hands fumble like thumbless nubs of
powerlessness—everyday tools, confounding
me with their failure. I need this nameless bit of
life; I'm scouring the edges of consciousness, like
an addict, sucking the pipe for traces of
a beloved opiate.
Nothing.
© Kerri Jenkins, April 17, 2001
