By Thomas Page
Endings either come too soon or too late.
The theatergoers itching to move
Watching the actor butcher the iamb times five;
The shoe on the gas-pedal rolling the ankle
With the hand primed on the horn;
The pilgrims waiting for the pilgrimage to end
So that they can lay their head on their pillows.
Ouroboros circling above
Again and again
Seeing the tail being eaten by the end
Again and again
Like the rains feeding the lakes feeding the clouds
Again and again
The sky shines blue with it.
There is always some end to every beginning
But there may be a beginning to every end—
The mountaineer has to scale down the summit
Avoiding all of the hazards they faced on the way up
In reverse—
Sisyphus chasing the rock—
But with renewed vigor that it can be done
And it has be done
And it will be done.
The valleys beneath the spiked boots
Higher than the sun in its zenith
Finding the limits of the sky
Barely out of reach.
