Not Really
by JD DeHart
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.