"Great Death gives way and unprepares us."*
When things fill up, they break.
Ice breaks. Why is it tragic
for masks to slip away?
All we can grasp are containers
that serve for a time
emptying their echo
- just as death gives way
to meaning, meaning
gives way to death;
it's all a matter of sizing
the tailor measuring out time and space
as if what is surrounding us could ever fit
as if there were bolts enough of light
to cover a human soul -
we grow like nine-years-old -
into what we already are.
* from "A Poem Beginning with a Line from Pindar - IV"
