Saturday, November 9

The End

The crystal box of hours,
Minutes, years parsimoniously parcels out
Their end, not their beginning.

She jetés on legs of glass,
Each step a tick-tick-tick closer
To her end, not her beginning.

He grows in hot skin breaths,
Reigns a kingdom of intimate dreams
About his end, not his beginning.

They—locked in lifeless lassitude—
Forever suspended in tremulous space,
Not meant for this world, this rule-bound place,
They begin at the end.

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