The Perfect Life

by Stephen Dunn

Because it was in the future, it always existed

and asked of us, I thought, only to wish

ourselves toward it, and record what we saw,

its flora and architecture and scud-free sky.

And I, for one, found this to be possible,

and wished myself further into it,

so far that I heard it asking me to tell others

about the evils of industry,

and how it might feel to have our desires

matched, then satisfied, every day of our lives.

The perfect life was never quite present,

so could never be faulted, and seemed

to keep just enough of its promises

to keep me committed. In this way it resembled

one of those beautiful strangers

made of smoke and thin air, the lovely trouble

I've often foreseen, but still wanted to lie down with.

I remember how often I forgave its intolerances,

and once, when I realized its agenda was to exclude

every other version of a perfect life, I excused it

as fulfillment's necessary sacrifice.

Later on - oh the perfect life does not like the sound

of history - later on, amid the regret, the heartbreak -

amid such words I now permitted myself to say,

I nevertheless remember a clearing by a river,

the camaraderie there, the small fires and the dancing,

and looking up into the lambency of the night

how I believed that all of it was ours.

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