Poem in Which the Present Knows it Could’ve Been Something Else

We could've missed the third window of opportunity.
The first one always tends to go to someone else ahead in line.
The next after that, to whoever punches the wall or bangs on the glass.

We could've misread the horoscope or the I Ching runes and gone
north instead of west.

We could've looked into the eyes of more houses 
instead of flying into the one with a yard where we saw 
a tree and the reddest heart of a fruit without bones.

I could've learned a different instrument instead of the one 
that made me adore its range of yellowing keys for hours a day.

I could've stopped my mouth from wanting wanting
and instead learned to whistle so things would come  
running up to me.

I could've drawn a shade across the openings 
where light poured in
then fed bowls of bitter dream to all those in my care.

Yet here we are here we are.

Some things are bearable with the help
of paper and water and stone. 

One holds its place. 
One is the coast of a remembered country.

The other plunges its hand into a basin of bright blue 
marbles, rowing toward land.