Harlequin life

I pushed off long ago,
barely looking back.

Part of it was caused
by circumstance,

other parts by willfulness
or what we mean

when we say
I had no choice.

What happened
in the intervening years

would fill an archive,
but no more or less

than anyone else’s
harlequin life.

I cannot clearly tell
what parts shone

with more lucidity
than foolishness,

or where I found
the courage to rise

above the givens of this
grasping self. So many

moments as if doomed
from the start

taught me how difficult
it is to shelter hope,

how necessary to hold
its stubborn flicker,

cupped against
the not yet known.


In response to Via Negativa: Writing process.

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