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?