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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