Member-only story
Final Circle
a poem
Sep 23, 2019
Having dusted off my sleeves,
having looked around once more in case
something’s been left inadvertently behind,
having reached finality like a destination,
I remember it’s all a circle,
over, endless, open,
repeated again and again
like some impossible length of film slipping
past the light that flashes the images in flickers
on my face,
on your face,
on whatever happens
to be in the way,
having worked out the Gordian knot of reason
until it lies flat and limp on the floor
I leave it for you to sweep away
or save,
curled in your hand and put aside
against the time you’ll need to bind things
falling apart of their own nature.
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Copyright 2019 Marguerite Floyd all rights reserved
