the way to the end of a written poem, I used to think,

was through a dark and narrow corridor, and

to give the furred animal (that which comes and coos

and stretches itself upon the mind like a cat on a leg)

a name and a small home, hoping to earn
its loyalty; to put it on a leash and hope it leads you out.

but it offers but some company and little else;

the unfolding of my words brings no light.

nowadays I bring a lamp — and by it I see

these poems, the maps I made in the dark

that charted courses that curve inward, deeper,

spiralling into quiet oblivion.

I pick up the lamp and move forward.