there stands the final curtain
drawn like skeletal models
begging to stand erect,

wishing for one more glimpse;

hidden lines
where we distinctly remember
gifts and the meaning of giving
finally able to grasp
the finite details
found without and within.


“what has been the most beautiful moment of your life?”
you will ask,
looking at me with the eyes of martyrs, of intention,
of clear levelling

and I remember touching
the parts of your body
with a mechanic carefulness
and naming the parts
you had not yet found

wondering only if
the names i gave
were beautiful enough.

these are my submissions:
that you will carry only the fingerprints
when i cross the border
and you drive the roads between,
and that
the words i gave you
would make a safe place
from the weary traversals of
all about to come.

scant gestures. you will say
“you never gave me an answer”
when every unsure or
sure fingertip had pointed
to the exact spots
where the answer laid.


it is never enough
to give everything when
i still carry the guilt
of owing you so much more.