Tuesday, July 19, 2022

THE REST

Maybe there's no need 
to stubbornly progress; 

maybe all 
that distance is

is your longing 
for some certain person 
finally expressed 

as a clean, stoic 
integer—

and multiplied by 
the quite humbling 
square root 

of all 
your most trusted 
counterfactuals. 


Maybe nobody—
yet—
is entirely hopeless

because no one 
is immortal; 

and between those 
immovable 
brownish red doors 

which stand, so grim, 
at the beginning
and end of things, 

the rest 
of what exists 
is called (how 

merciful):
the middle.