Though I feel that
    I am at the crest of the world,
I know I am only defined by words
    With a passion now human.

Though I have limits and limitations,
     I know that my hope exceeds them.

    And even as life tears me apart,
I still choose to write the sorrow and exploit
       The hollows of its weakness.

    Time is a dismembered calendar,
And though days fall like seasonal gestures,
    I neither end nor begin.

For though I am finite,
     The poetic dreams turn themselves
Around and preserve me.

I am a syllable from a broken phrase.