This Poem Cannot Be Finished Off Writing

This poem cannot be

finished off writing,

this song not ended,

thirst not quenched;

Every memory refuses

to be effaced, every plot

declines to produce, every face

is reluctant to endure.

A dream unwilling to dissolve,

lingers forever– although

I do not know if

I am in the dream or out.

Wandering and transience

spread endless, dazzling rays.

What else can I send,

to feed everyone the

sweetness of unbitter

solitude, besides this poem?