Non-Titled

It dawns on you, silly sunrise
In the desert in the autumn,
That you’re settling into the last
Of your poetry—it’s getting

Diffuse, and your memory reels
From time to time or loses threads,
But that’s not your soul wasting time
Anymore. These are the late clouds

Of the long storm you’ve entertained
For more than a decade, at last
Dissipating. It’s all ok.
You’re doing what you ought to be,

Given a world with less and less,
Little or no, ought left, only
Increasingly beautiful naught,
The fine outlines of nothing yet.