today i learned
the god of illusion:
her name is horizon
but having heard the news
you removed the vital line
and if you keep it to yourself, you,
all your cool, cold, your cooling words
or keep you static
passing charges
across many hands, each utterance, understanding,
still,
still, the unsure ever
could i be so decisive?
like she tells me: poets
they never converge
and that never changes, because all else changes,
all limits unreaching, all distance keeping,
for poets grasping
through grey-washed pane
my graphite days
some days, i speak
i speak as though the time's gone off
a degree or five extra
over, now, these extra days
and meanwhile, you, snatched from the jaws
of wait -
you and we, how we burned, then, through all the old news
and that feeling, when, it's something new
and it's something, somehow,
we already knew
and now and then, every time, the torch
carries for by still,
our question: unknown