One’s End’s Ambiguous

The labyrinth

bends into itself:

one thought feeds

bits of fear to the next;

until, teeth crack

on broken bone,

and it ends

without a beginning

to begin again.

One’s end’s ambiguous

as one’s beginning.

Indecisive and vague,

the end’s no different

than any contingent.

The end ends

with a flailing

of the mind

through a stark


of where we are,

where we have been,

and without a why

to justify

the confusion

of the scattered pages

across the floor,

and the ash in the air.

(May 12, 2019)



one stands always at a beginning

a new door opens to a passage

which leads to another door

which opens wherever you are

there are no keys no locks no doors

only you standing within time

in motion without moving

yourself a passage a sluice

through which apparitions slip

taking on your form like robes

then quickly cast away replaced

by yet another without end

each moment embraces death with a kiss

each moment finds your self reborn

(April 16, 2019)

Linear Circles


The beginning squeezes back

like a hermit crab retreats

deeper into its ever-tightening

shell. This moment opens

into and closes off the last

and next, as we each pretend

we are a cumulative consequence.

God, if extant, does not care

about time and its causes, the click

and clack of the marble rolling

through preordained mechanics,

nor the butterfly landing on her hand.

I fear pat endings’ homilies,

as if someone turns off the lights.

(February 15, 2019)