Poem 62

Blank, so that there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

Only a pencil for scribbling.

An arrow shot through a globe to summon adventure,

a fool’s errand: adventure must do the summoning.

Far, far, far away and growing more distant with time.

So, there was no meeting.

And little, very little understanding.

A spectacular view and a call to leap forward.

Only a forceful descent.

Arrow points at the trailhead leading everywhere.

Every impossibility closed another ‘could have been.’

Light blinded and water drowned; both were needed.

So, prisms danced on the cliff-face near the waves.

And so much made sense once it was behind.

Blank, so that there was nothing, nothing, nothing.

Only cold hands permanently unheld.

Every blessed moment rested; only cursed ones moved.

Pages were marked by readers who never returned.

Composure only failed when feeling was a burden.

So, the conqueror grew bored with his conquest.

And folded his hands in a vain attempt to warm them.

A horizon that faded into the spangled heavens.

Only a map for the wayward.

Intense longing to dissipate and join the stars,

felt by anyone who was watching them.

Skies were open, open, open, and plains were vast.

So, chasing them seemed right.

And catching them was impossible.