Epilogue

There are too many miracles invading the earth--
too many old ones, given short shrift,
gratuitous, and faded yellow.
I'd like to make a moratorium on time,
then stoop to look at them,
allow my fingers simpler luxuries
before they race away.
I see a page of jerks and starts,
forgotten hiccups, little coffins closed
and never locked. awaiting my return.
Something knew.

Now when the end arrives, I too
will think again of my own plodding
sentences that covered up the gaps.
While hoping it was not, I knew the pretense.
There was too much to do.

It seems to be a good thing
that lamentations can be second-hand.
To make a literary bent a slave
to such convenience it could trick a cardinal.
Or me.

Might it then be
for such nefarious purpose
that good prophet Jeremy lives on?
~