Chana Bloch

The first is always foolish, the second                 
a foolish attempt to undo it.  
Those two are wasted

on the young, who are famous
for wasting—
oh, it was you

who made those wishes,
you and your regrettable failure           
to see around corners.     
     
You've lived on roots, slept on straw,
looked down a well so deep       
you couldn't see the bottom.                 

That's no cloth of gold,
just the setting sun                         
gilding the windows.                                     

What are you saving that third wish for?

The day the horizon               
begins to tighten its wire                       
around you?