When the time that was given us is gone,

and the wild shaking of the wind is here,

why do you rear up, look back?

Why see again the fields,

their stubble ploughed for upland rain,

why see the thistle and the grapes that climb unchecked?

Why see the road

that carves ravines, descends, arrives,

and forks and forks again,

until the tiny capsule that you made

is all that’s left of any light? What drives you back

into this story, unlearn its proof, the very one you wrote?

When it is all too late

and darkness takes the wind, too late

to rearrange, reverse, repeat, deny,

does the solitary,

dimming mind demand

to understand the truth? And why?