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Keep trying.
The end may be nigh,
but you aren’t.
Whether you disappear
beneath the ground
or into the sky-
whether we return
to our mother’s
on our weeping knees,
or settle
into salty oceans,
you and I are fathoms
we cannot depth.
The inkblot,
the zeroes and ones
that trail our names
are temporal AND lasting,
existence outside
our own comprehension and concern
make it so.
Galileo and Rembrandt
did not know
we would be here
and they, like us
cannot predict
the future, only rotations and pigment.
Yet we keep trying.
Of the future, I think:
the remainder
of your voice, your will
is imaginable,
palpable even-
the seed to flower a heart.
I believe
the next sentence
or sketch you make,
the next love
you confess sincerely
will mark the end
of what seemed true
and the beginning of brilliance,
the fracturing of a deep lie
someone touched
you and me and many
Keep trying,
because the calendar pages
will eventually be realmless,
and right now
we can
still write
an x for a day passed
and underline our friend’s birthday
in red sharpie
and turn past October
to see
what date Thanksgiving is.
The best we can do
is ready our hand
to make work
and shields
and pull weeds from our gardens,
to reach into the night
and touch the forehead
one pillow over.
Whether cool or hot,
that brain waits for beginnings.
But you try,
as you should.
If you didn’t
how would I recognize you
the backdrop of all the still boulders,
looking down
and grumbling
beneath the weight
of their own granite reasoning.
During dewy mornings,
you are dry and pushing
at the sun
to wake up
and warm even those unaware
of your presence, asleep and water-speckled.
Alongside cattails and
weeping willows, you think
of every word that rhymes
with brush, while warm-screened jinn
tend to their masters.
I am not sure they try,
not as you do.
I am not sure of anything, anymore,
except I’ll try, too.