it's not that i am without memory, or
stupidly optimistic--all yesterdays i've known
appear identical, symmetrical, when organized
by thought into rows and columns, and
with such dependable monotony i abandoned
any tomorrow-ridden expectations by week
no, that is not at all it. rather, as spent-
years have worn all the natural bouldery
crevices spherical, and carved a niche quite
particular in this acted-upon hillside, so hope
and failure have become as perfect--linear and
smooth--as any other merely gravitational
tumbling, devoid of tops or bottoms.
at each dawn's most initial tolling i know the
journey will recommence, with a most spiteful
lack of recognition, that any single progression
will unerringly be rendered void.
but i continue, nevertheless, each day--for
there is something untellably wonderful in the
thinning, however-fleeting air.