443 and 444

Again, again, let’s try the thing again,

and never mind the heart that anchors me

to growth only blind optimists can see,

to stakes that drive me only where I’ve been.

But let us try—for what else is a life?

If progress, it is so unknowingly.

We seem to be only whate’er we be.

But some claim we step forward through the strife.

And where indeed to go, if not the wind?

You’ll sink if you don’t set your sights ahead,

and conquer—or at least talk back to—dread.

You’re either progress-bent or peril-pinned.

So let’s again, again, again… again,

however oft we wind up here again.

~~~

A house there is, if only in my mind,

where waking leads to talking, as the sand

still crusts the eyes, but yet you will still find

that talking, not more sleeping, is at hand.

And what, you ask, have they to talk about?

Each other—that of course—of most import;

but not alone—their books are also out,

and they talk, too, of what their tomes report.

This warm, imaginary house of mine

is all that I can think of when I try

to wake. To live. To read. ‘Tis in my mind,

and stops me from my living with a sigh.

To live, or e’en to read, is nothing. Stale,

without someone to listen to the tale.