Cry Over Spilt Milk

My sense of distance is gone. I reach
away from my life, these clicking keys under
my fingers, because I see something in
the future, colorful and clean. I feel my hand

go out through the window, past the
horizon, vanishing into tomorrow, next
week, the coming year, pulling my arm
along. Can my heart pump blood that far?

But I have reached past where I can see:
what else is there? I feel around, poking
at the space with my fingers, trying to
decide if it is safe. Straining to see, I’m blind.

Thirsty. My hand snaps back, snagging
the glass of milk on my desk. I find myself
in a pale flume, coldly penetrating my
clothes, baptizing me with blank-canvas perfection.

To see without looking, to look and not see;
either is a blessing in its time. Changing,
I am oddly happy. Only my clothes weep white
tears, and I shall comfort them in time.