I have no more been near it
For so much time than I have
drawn closer to it in hunger
And headed this way and that
In search of it much longer
And tried to lose myself, I admit,
In forests and amongst desolate dunes,
To be sure of learning every which way to forget
And forgetting every way to remember
How burned and acrid smoking embers
Have been known to reignite
To smoulder only when and if the conditions
shall be perfect, and yet
To smoulder nonetheless.
In truth, yes, I have wondered
Every which way,
How not to look back and question:
If we stoked our embers, darling,
Did we stoke them to the last
Of charred and empty hope?
Did we break them into dust?
Or did we leave our beach-fire burning
Slightly, at the onset of our dusk?