Some desire starts as a light under a door.
The room gets smaller.
The room beyond it gets bright.
Before a hand moves,
a voice has already asked:
what if there were more?
The thing arrives.
It sits on the shelf for a week.
Then the whisper comes back
wearing a different coat.
Desire wants money. Desire wants a name.
It wants to win and then be seen winning.
It wants to be special,
which means standing a little higher than the rest
on a box it built itself.
It calls itself a road.
Almost there, it says,
and never says where.
It never turns around
to see who is always leaving.
Between what is and what will be
there is a gap.
Desire lives in it
the way a tongue keeps going back to a sore tooth,
keeping it from healing.
But there is another kind.
Thirst, and a hand finds the cup.
Nothing was planned.
Nothing was promised.
The water is drunk, and the wanting is over,
like rain that has finished.
Thought builds a staircase
to a room called later,
then moves in and lives on the stairs.
Desire can be watched
the way a stranger is watched
walking toward a house.
It knocks.
It says what it thinks it is missing.
Everything it says is heard.
The door stays a door.
Somewhere in the house, a tap is running.
A cup fills.
The knocking stops.
Between what is and what will be:
nothing.
That wanting was only ever the length of a drink.
The room gets smaller.
The room beyond it gets bright.
Before a hand moves,
a voice has already asked:
what if there were more?
The thing arrives.
It sits on the shelf for a week.
Then the whisper comes back
wearing a different coat.
Desire wants money. Desire wants a name.
It wants to win and then be seen winning.
It wants to be special,
which means standing a little higher than the rest
on a box it built itself.
It calls itself a road.
Almost there, it says,
and never says where.
It never turns around
to see who is always leaving.
Between what is and what will be
there is a gap.
Desire lives in it
the way a tongue keeps going back to a sore tooth,
keeping it from healing.
But there is another kind.
Thirst, and a hand finds the cup.
Nothing was planned.
Nothing was promised.
The water is drunk, and the wanting is over,
like rain that has finished.
Thought builds a staircase
to a room called later,
then moves in and lives on the stairs.
Desire can be watched
the way a stranger is watched
walking toward a house.
It knocks.
It says what it thinks it is missing.
Everything it says is heard.
The door stays a door.
Somewhere in the house, a tap is running.
A cup fills.
The knocking stops.
Between what is and what will be:
nothing.
That wanting was only ever the length of a drink.
Sometimes, peace begins when we stop chasing what we think we need and learn to appreciate what we already have. 
