I thought I could write
in this moment and write well
but I'm afraid that writing
is not feeling
and that feeling
escapes writing about
except to say that it hurts
without knowing how to qualify,
quantify, or justify, it just does.

New ends

It seems time goes
without so much as goodbye
without so much as a note
of change, an official end
to periods, and without
warning of beginning
something new.

Perhaps not just time;
perhaps also us,
and what I miss has ended
perhaps long before
I knew:
where are the unsolicited
nights over,
the goodnight messages,
the inclusion in things -
being the center of things
was nice.

I just wish I had warning -
I just wish I knew -
standing here one moment
too long, one hurt lip
too many, one downcast eye
too low - no,
I didn't know.
I didn't sign off
on this turn
and I slip sometimes
between the cracks of sense
into nonsense, gibberish,
none-of-that.

I will wish time goodnight,
and childhood goodbye,
but for all other counts
I will keep on
and hope.