there is nothing to be done there is just the getting up next morning the alone the travelling towards daily obligation the hard road with stones sharp enough to cut the feet the heart brimming on despite the forfeits asked the forfeits given there is no choice now - has never been an end, a beginning, there is just the going on the constant wearing of the soul's constellations - I will become so thin with this paring that the next one will blow me awaynext poem