Sometimes I can almost see, around our heads, <br />Like gnats around a streetlight in summer, <br />The children we could have, <br />The glimmer of them. <br /> <br />Sometimes I feel them waiting, dozing <br />In some antechamber - servants, half- <br />Listening for the bell. <br /> <br />Sometimes I see them lying like love letters <br />In the Dead Letter Office <br /> <br />And sometimes, like tonight, by some black <br />Second sight I can feel just one of them <br />Standing on the edge of a cliff by the sea <br />In the dark, stretching its arms out <br />Desperately to me.<br /><br />Sharon Olds<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-unborn/
