2089. ON POINT

ON POINT

I am on point with my dirge, with my memory, with

my all-too-many-witnessed things. I am (and, yes)

already an old man. And these are distant, dallianced

days : my fights with men, the sad surpluses of Alecks

and Mirandas, the severe routs of magisterial decorum

making up mind and manners. All gone, and all, as well

insipid as Hell. The page I turn is already torn from

a Book of Life long tarnished and re-bound by

amateur craftsmen; to be sure, not mine.

-

I walk away on desert sands and shifting packs

of wind-blown soils. No foundation 'neath the

castle, no moat to embroil. I look straight

ahead, and only see - on point, on point

again, the farther goal I've sought for,

now suddenly so near, still dear.