Rest assured, somewhere in the middle
of your poem—the search for perfection
will consume itself completely
and leave whatever burnt up
lump of your-
self that's left inside
feeling perfect-
ly insatiable
at the same time. Even though
this radical new rhythm,
which you can neither imagine
nor define, keeps ringing true;
either the impossibility of the sound
stops you dead—or else
the realness of it
keeps leading you on. As it must.
Until, finally you approach
the end of the last line,
still lacking in the love
you were desperate to find,
though all curiosity
has been extinguished
and each open end
has been punctuated.
But the lingering question
what was it all for?—blazes forth
brighter than it ever has before,
since now, it can only be answered:
whatever is left
that it isn't.
