The possibilities are, as they say, endless.
We can fight, we can talk, we can live, we can die.
Here, now, this chair restrains only a few paths.
Books or bed or booze or
are all possibilities, pathways, parchways,
and we do not know where they lead.
If we dare, we can do something,
and we must dare, for nothing is
—even more so in the end—
that will change things as much as anything.
What do we dare, when and where?
How much does it matter,
beyond the wise, beyond the tiny
certainties that we can safely grasp?
Every possibility could end in joy
or wretched, staining, misery,
tearing apart what so carefully
was twined together, strand by strand,
folded palms left from a procession,
bent and tortured into torture itself.
And like every chance it ends,
poorly, wonderfully, violently,
we know not until we reach that road,
rounding its way outside the city
and up, up, up the ancient hill,
until upon the dust left behind from dust
the way reaches its climax,
that final meeting of every possibility.
Every path leads to death, even death
that does not end, little dyings
that free us from allegiance
to one possibility
or another.They are endless
but we are not and the ends
are better than an infinite possibilities.