Any minute now,
These nights won’t end in sweats
And my pillow will welcome
And not my witness my end.
These dreams of youth,
The inspiration of friends,
The diety of transit, of Montreal, of Pittsburgh, of Seoul,
Will rest patiently for a few years, if not ever. I rolled dice that were not my own. I borrowed time in
Foreign lands. I soaked in the soil of incomprehension, of that beauty of the impossible,
Of that possibility that it might never end. I was Peter Pan, green to the marrow. Times with friends are not unique but they are mine so they are exquisite.
They are not art but artifice, not subtle but sublime. They are the stuff of
nonsensical everyday piously humble legend. They are the roots of trees that will not grow
Aside from in imaginative enterprises. They grow in perversely illogical waters, far from shore, far from the Singapores
and Moscows. that I will never visit. Far from rounding the Cape, I burrow in the bay, sinking deep but imagining limitless horizons, endless waters, journeys without ends. I imagine death, but as a beginning, a beginning without end.