Whenever I say
“finally,”
or
“glad that’s over,”
I know myself
to be a liar, somehow;
nothing has ever been
over, “finally”
has never been true.
I live in a circle
with childhood
biting my tail always,
with yesterday seeking
to tear at my belly.
I ought to learn to nod
at apparent closure
more subtly
and never
commit a word to it.
I ought to know
by now
the only true way
it’s going to end
is by it all ending at once.
Dark Matter 