I had a dream that I was metaphorically / made of glass and I shattered
fragile shards transparent / flaked apart in the dirt, pieces of soul reduced
to the caution signs that were not in place / yet would have made more sense to be

sometimes, not all revolving moments, I wonder / if there exists
a known or named sentiment for the phenomenon / in which what was feels too unpoetic
for the realism of occurrence / when what was not is too numinous to be unreal

the unchosen, broken chances may bite but the stories / too close to truth, may they thrive
in the minds of the unchosen / or the unchoosers who strode too confidently away
from the perception of the idea of what could have been / becoming more than speculation

did it hurt? / when the moon rose at the same time as the sun
and the music rang out from a corner away / yet you were separated by distance abundant
two feet on which to walk, two arms with which to write barely enough / to capture

this planet’s next near miss / never minding you wished to have been torn by the                proposition?