The Defeatist Speaks of Endings

The Defeatist Speaks of Endings

You are a maybe bordering on probably not.
You offer me something beautiful

a map of meticulous origami?
a fist flowering into a hand?

and I refuse you.


Love. It is my anger of language at words,

of having to be read
from endless angles;

of the spaces between them;
of the countless ways of knowing you.

You think your gift is

a sentence, beautifully composed
and effortless;

a puzzle bound by rules;
a death sentence of comprehension.

I think your warm outstretched hand
is a map so faded
it is a hand once again.