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By Mark Olague

I never denied “stuck in the past.”
I only took issue with “stuck.”
The past has not only not
passed
it’s not even ___
yet.
What’s to lament but
this thick present–
congealed unending dripping
nowness?
There is a
house sits
behind this
thought
contracted by better hands
than these.
(Tropes are scaffolds upon
whose planks
tiny pots of paint
dry.)
This is only a paint-drying.
Another new building goes up
on my block:
More windows, please,
to scream yes from.
My windows are nailed shut.
Everyday orders are given
and sense made fresh.
It’s common to assume
everyone lives this way.
I won’t object
any more
to stuck.
Let’s open the window and leap.
Lead the way.

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