It is not that one has not tried again and again to alter the course of the lines or the sound of the waves that bounce off the page. It is that there are stubborn thoughts that will not yield. It is that it already is what it should be as it was first conceived: as if without beginning but with a definite end.
And if my fingers find themselves
lost through your hair again,
if i take a whiff of you again
own you for one brief moment again
Then let go. And lose all these
that I’ve known. Will they say
it’s so wrong? Then set fire
to my soul. Nothing changes.
At the thought of your eyes alone
I burn. Again and again.
And from the ashes at your feet
I rise, again and again.
From the beginnings of the last quarter
October 16, 2012