BY DR. AGONSON
And when we part, are parting,
when our hands must let go,
in that last moment,
our fingertips brushing,
for the final time touching,
will it have even mattered?
Our roads came together,
for a brief mile intertwined,
and now fork to wilderness
where empty desolation lies.
Buildings crumbling into the sea,
skyscrapers tumbling, wax melting in the sun.
At least that’s where my road goes.
I travel through a place that was,
with naught a ghost nor specter.
I see not ahead your road,
but fear your blindness to it,
more so your willingness of it.
How is it that roads we travel—
or are they roads we pave?—
encircle the earth but rarely touch?
How is it that touching they should part?
How is it that looking back we see different paths?
And where will my path go, once I reach the sea?
I must prepare a boat.
Setting out the sails
I must tether fortune.
The seas are rough,
the seas hold treasure,
and I must sail away from you.