48

No poem, no pattern of it
no putting into words.

                                              Nothing inescapable
nothing escapable but nothing
to escape.

                      No feelings that are ours
no words, no ceremony.

                                                  An emptiness
nothing fills again & again.

                                                        You
you lie next to me. We are alone.

Sometimes a beauty, sometimes a pleasure
always what cannot be repeated.

                                                                  Forever new
& forever dying, who could predict what we are
or limit what we are not?