The Uncertainty Of Evening
A life spent learning what I’m not.
Always degrees. Rarely absolutes.
Not a great writer. Not a good husband.
Not much of a father. Seldom a good example.
Not fearless. Not very affectionate.
Not caring or careful about money.
Not likely to complete anything.
Not to be trusted with the hearts of others.
Not successful. Not a failure. Not clever.
Not vain. Not strong. Never convinced.
So many nots and nevers shaved
away all the impossible layers
until, with age, a core remains.
The bright young thing of illusion
lives only in a memory of thens.
Not bright, not young, little time to go.
Not what I was but what is left.
Time eats away even tallness.
I shrink slowly into the old,
a collection of stories already told.
The present, an ambling skeleton.
Fleshly desires gone to stay.
How it is. Must be. How it ends.
The self a minimalist ruin.
Pure in its polished poverty.
Extraneous nothings burned away.
The bared heart beats on a while.
Nothing important remains to say.
Existence reduced to essence.
Palpably pure in its poverty.
Life reduced to each single day.
Waking to waking. Sleep to sleep.
Another night of not knowing
if my eyes will open and I shall wake
and what another day will take.
I lay me down again, my soul to keep.
