How many times have I set out after
what I wanted only to have it
change to water
in my hands, and so amaze me
I let it slip through my fingers
before I knew I was thirsty?

How many times have I jumped out of sleep
to answer a voice
that a moment later
I couldn't swear I had heard, calling—
and I wanted so badly to answer—"Jack . . ."

And you, spilling my name in droplets
all day long and I never notice?

Have many times have I told you
how I was given to God like Samuel
before I was born?

How many times have I opened the closet
to seek the one coat
that would make me a man and yet gentle
and put on the same gray jacket?

And how many times have I wanted
a lover's mouth to open
only to find I teetered
like an inch-high dwarf with no sense of balance
on the edge of the keys of a grand piano?

How many times have I studied
the theory of numbers
till late in the evening
and stood the next morning in line for breakfast,
despairing and stubbled,
unable to figure my change
and begging the god of small favors
to cross my pockets with silver,
spare me the minor hassle, the register girl's
friendly forgiveness?

And how many times have I drunk to forget
or swallowed a tab
to wander a mystical animal
in the church of the world's stained light
and wound up shivering
all night under Orion?

And how many times have I thought
that words somehow on paper
would ease a man's pain, or my own?

Oh how many times have I set out after
what I wanted only to have it
change to water
in my hands, and so amaze me
I let it slip through my fingers
before I knew I was thirsty?