I cannot predict my next great joy.
Will it be poetic-a subtle flash of ink?
Will it be at school- preparing a child’s question?
Will it be walking upon a ceaseless beauty?
I cannot know.
Nor would I.
* * *
There is no stopping, no end to the push.
For Art, for Work, for Love, I remain
the eager boy. Only a hoper
of endings, a seeker of stoppage,
can I cease to be.
* * *
On we flourish,
rapid, sang-froid, silencing.
No kind of end is possible,
save that of fear.
* * *
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