Everything within me wants to move forward
with you, with us, with everything we could be
even if what we can be is not what we could be
because what we are is still perfect.

With you, with us, with everything we could be,
how did we become horses on the merry-go-round?
Because what we are is still perfect,
and circles never go anywhere.

How did we become horses on the merry-go-round?
And is it a carousel?   Do you still see, feel, the heady mix of light and color?
Circles go nowhere—so have we become one of those
things that fling everyone off into the mud?

No.  It is a carousel.  And I believe and see every light and color
but I feel I have to show you again, each day, as if you are Dori, swimming
among things that have been flung off into the mud,
and I’m a stranger who knows too much, has been shown too much, and must

feel I have to show you again, each day, not to worry—a seeming
of who I am, and what I want, and what I’ll do, or don’t, or won’t,
a stranger who knows too much, but fades too much, and is just
slightly familiar enough to get to ride again.

Who am I?  What do I want?  What will I do, or don’t, or won’t?
Even if what I could be is not what I can be
I‘ll say the words familiar enough I can ride again.
Even if everything within me wants

                                                                    to move forward.