and now this life,
this victory,
this running breathless
in the wind
must end.
the time for looking back
is part of our
habitual comparing
of what may be
to what is not:
or better,
what-may-not-be
anymore.

and now this game,
this symphony,
these legs and music
of the earth
must cease.
the act of reaching out
is part of our
continuously sharing
all the highlights 
and the low:
a contest
with a loser, but
no score

momentary catalyst,
heart in search of rest;
fragmentary certitude
in an anapest —

thoughts that formless coalesce;
irritants and wine —
odyssey of relevance,
lowing with the kine.

saying what is meant to say
doesn’t meaning give;
though they stay connected lines,
they’re derivative 

like the image of a hint
of what is to be;
maybe that’s enough for now.
suggestivity