She Will Meet You
If you keep going
and going
and going
and going
to meet the poem
One day she will come to meet you.
You are spent, but she, still fresh,
serenely smiling in crepuscular welcome
of your foolish faith of effort,
the wisdom of your yearning,
Pausing, blinking,
No doubt you’re
unsure of how to mold
and mete the moment
Now it’s here
Where’s the breath?
In the poem that clamors,
Stampeding.
Where’s the beat?
In the poem that lingers, teasing,
to a conclusion of uncertainty,
to a suspension not resolving.