The junction—
Thought with matter
Effortless connection
The wanted,
Of course,
Happens.
Ask
And the answer imagines.
Is it pompous to assume such power?
Is that pride before the fall?
Can there still be such a meeting
At this late hour—
Or is that presumption after all?
The body is finite.
That is for sure.
It aches and it thrashes
Still it endures.
The surf splashes
On a coastline quite sure.
Words beach like lashes
With painful allure.
Here comes the junction,
Rise and awake.
A surer path,
A turn to take.
Nesting in havens,
Raising the stake
For this last chance,
The bet one must take.
Do not withdraw
To Beckford’s vain tower.
Do not let bitterness
Spoil and make sour.
Seek now a Notetaker,
A beckoning power.
Risk now a meeting
For late is the hour.
