The True End

The True End

 

It is not the rose, the clay

which is made of, and yet to become.

 

It is not the ocean, or the eloquent,

pilgramatic reverence that holds us in thrall.

 

Only apparition of birds, a mouthful

of moonlight, unheeded shadow...

 

Oh, Love, are we wherein driven

to be found, by a knowledging ill, by you?

 

2005-2-5