55.
As life migrates to colder zones
And each day bids us to become
Accustomed to more and more bones
And moths, decay, and tumbling numb,
The body, how comfortably it groans:
The bread of life is ground down to a crumb.
56.
In parentheses, this double treble life
Aches to hold an opening of the heart, a closing
Of the mind; pain in places that do not bruise
Engenders vocabulary, not mine, not in
The lexicon. It is not recommended,
But there is no choice. What holds us
Back from being all we can; is it a key
Beyond our singing range? Is it
Unexercised imagination (once unleashed)
Or foolish fancy needing to be repressed,
Or thwarted dreams, whose window
Is narrow, and whose sill will tip and whose
Dimensions will shrivel to the size of a breath?
Yes, enough is enough.
Basta.
Genug.
