On Longing

If growing old is a growing 
        into a less fraught relationship with the world,

I don't feel it—not yet. Will we still be here 
        to witness that arc of the universe as it bends  

only toward light, as it props up every crumbling 
        wall with a trellis of jasmine flowers, the kind 

that always stop me in my tracks with their heady 
        scent when I'm walking down the street near  

a café whose name, in Latin, means It's all my fault 
       or I am to blame? I wish taking public responsibility  

for a wrongdoing were as easy as saying I'd like one  
      iced pistachio rose latte with oatmilk to go. I wish we  

could follow the arc of our own longings and know where
      they'll come to rest in a just universe, in this lifetime.