There are mysteries deeper than sex,
fathers, mothers and blue-eyes babies
more fathomless than final death
in the void beyond the bell-jar.
The separateness of self, expressed
imperfectly in ink and page’s
ranting villanelles and villains
otherwise, in silence.
Series of blind passages,
passings, passions, pains and labors
circling wearily, trod by rote
in ever-smoother traces.
Illusory escape offered
in knife-gleam, stunning revelation
suffocating clouds are
always about to part.
No one will ever out-write Shakespeare
the Golden Age was before you were born
and even accidental
suicide is just the last