Not Really

I’m not really the ethereal whisper

found in the shadow of a distant

backyard corner, tucked

in childhood memory. Something

only the dog notices with its

keen senses, a glimpse.

I’m not sealed in the corridor

that keeps returning in dreams.

Someone to find in tunnels

that never existed. Nor am I

the slide between dimensions,

the marriage of already and yet

to be, the unrealized—

but then humans have such a grasp

of their small frames,

enlarged by their own fearful

chase for grandeur, so convinced

they see all.