The perfect poem was not written
nor was the perfect book read.
It swayed between choices and fury.
At the beginning of spring and at summer's edge
and in melancholic autumn too, word's hung
and slipped like dry sand.
Distances were crossed once, eyes met faces that
met eyes, weathered by time, silenced by
silence. And words hovered there too,
some witty and plain but always very near
the centre of pain.
The perfect journey should end in staying. Not
seek edges and distances, words and meaning.
It should slip through the net of poetry
and ride the riptide to meaning, to break
the strangle of afternoon heartache.
The swollen tides must recede.