It is enough to know that there will be no left-overs. It is enough to know that even the things that never were will be gone. So much laden like Macbeth’s many sorry tomorrows. So much lost before anyone gave a thought to the looking. Day green and fevered, nights black as trust. Rooms lit with candles and windows riddled with rain. Promises that died as sweet lips shed them.
There are no plums, no red wheel-barrow. There is no trace of art or bitter intent. The days are caught in blue and breeze, dancing like a fallen leaf or discarded bag. The moon melts away without worrying any witness. Mud and dust and broken truths. The affectations of reason devoured by the great dumb leap of faith.
It goes without saying that I have sputtered and strayed. It goes without saying that I am lost in the halls and crypts of my own life. All the maps gave way to the monsters and mistakes. I have thrown away most of my vain clingings and sad attachments. Love letters and other failed failures in poems and prose. I have settled in the depths of my grief and madness, that barrel either aimed at my temple or pointed towards the congregation. I have settled on a definition without picking a direction. Scribbled in the margins as though tomorrow gave a damn.
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