I reached across the shelf for a book of poetry.
Milan Kundera pointed out that Life is Elsewhere,
not in a poem, or in this room, not in this city
or this mind,
I seek it, this elsewhere
even far from the beautiful mountains,
the bike path and this room filled with radiant
sun bouncing off yellow walls late in the afternoon.
life is so short and he says
with a new preface,
the cover illustration of a dog in a suit
looking across a forest of a woman's
torso and breasts, her chin tilted towards
maybe she is looking elsewhere.