No Moment past This One

Stephen Dobyns

I tell you, it seems to be always out there.
Is it like a blanket? No, it is nothing
like a blanket. Is it like darkness?
No, neither is it like darkness. But it
doesn't act like something within me.
How do I know this? Because it seems
to be waiting. And it seems to have both
hunger and humor. And it seems both
patient and eager, ponderous and weightless.
And it is large. And it grows larger. How
can it not be like darkness when it devours
the light? How can it not be like a blanket
when it seems so all-enveloping? How
can it seem like a place to tumble into
and yet be so tireless, so agile? Yet if I
could answer such riddles, then perhaps,
perhaps, but when it comes it wraps me
in soft ropes, and it draws the life from me
and yet I continue to breathe, although
there seems no moment past this one
and this one, and the days continue to pass.
You see, it must come from the outside,
some cold place or from deep in the earth,
because if the beast dwelt within me, then
how could I live, how could it be withstood?