We often 
need one 
to find 
the other 
for without 
the first 
we don’t 
know if
the second 
even exists 

What’s done 
is done 
and what’s 
over is
over there’s 
too much 
living left 
to do 

My one thing 
to do is
write not love 
but love I
do that too 
not sing but 
songs I sing 
not run for 
stroll will do 
mostly I sit
and quietly wander 
watching the rest

Oh when hope 
spoils and turns 
into slimy clumps 
of something once 
had been sweet
how could such 
a thing happen 
to something pure 
I guess even 
those things clear
can turn cloudy 
if left alone 
for too long