I loved this new poem by Maya Stein:
never enough
Even in the thick of a languid evening, replete with hors d'oeuvres
requiring the minutest precision, and stemware that asks for balance,
with a sunset sidling like slow ink below the horizon line, its wide curves
of light concentric against the city, I can't help but think of the dance
we make of living. How we cradle some moments like jewels or infants,
and others are cast off like gum wrappers or bad dates, regrettable detritus.
It’s strange how fleeting and accidental they can feel, these instants
of happiness, while misery is miasmic as tar. Either way, it’s
never enough, is it? Time siphons out and the door is always swinging.
Nothing stays the same, no matter how fiercely we keep clinging.
