Terry Persun

Maybe I shouldn’t say this.
I am continually reminded
of what I’m missing,
what I don’t have
in my life—not things,
but emotions, desires,
more importantly, landscapes.

Driven is a curse, a cross
to bear where time leaks
out a small hole in the corner
near the couch, the damp sill
of the side window left open
long enough for weather to seep
into the house and be dragged
by the wind, made by people
rushing their lives forward
without noticing.