so here we are,
at the end, perhaps
of the beginning
and at a new beginning
because we are always
beginning even when
we think that we
are at endings

how many times can
i write poems about
thirst and hunger
and lust and tenderness?

how many different
ways can i twist this
language into some
semblance of authentic

there are so many things
to say, such big things,
giant ideas that no
single language may ever
help us understand,

so many things that
frighten us so much
that we can hardly
bear them even in
the faintest of
flashes in our minds
and then find that
we must force ourselves
to go there
to put words to it
to extract everything
and say it somehow
even if it sounds the
same as yesterday

it won’t taste the same

and it will only taste good
if it’s true.