A Book of Music

Coming at an end, the lovers
Are exhausted like two swimmers. Where
Did it end? There is no telling. No love is
Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves’ boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye
Like death.
Coming at an end. Rather, I would say, like a length
Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths
Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain
Two persons. Yes,
Poetry ends like a rope.

-Jack Spicer

*oh, this poem for so many reasons today. not least of which is the way it chimes with a discussion from yesterday's linguistics class about present progressive in english (bear with me here): how never before mcdonalds could an english speaker say 'i am loving', as love in english is a perfect verb - you either do or you don't love, but you're never in the process of loving. and how big macs changed all of that. and how, yes, the rest of us will remain/two persons. yes*