The True End
It is not the rose, the clay
which is made of, and yet to become.
It is not the ocean, or the eloquent,
pilgramatic reverence that holds us in thrall.
Only apparition of birds, a mouthful
of moonlight, unheeded shadow...
Oh, Love, are we wherein driven
to be found, by a knowledging ill, by you?
2005-2-5
