South Margin Closed, Always
Every thing hath a beginning,
Too few things have an end
The middle is where opposites meet
and vanish round the bend
No one's had greater misfortune
Where corridors collide
than the good ship "Titanic",
Holed by her virgin bride
A good bargain is a pick-purse
Dry at the water's edge
full-ripe for one's own plucking
One's private privilege.
A trifle less than a bushel,
A shekel short of a shift
A smidgen, a pinch, a cupfull, an inch,
When drought has cut adrift
And I--some breathless crumbling leaf lost on a windy day
slick ice, sharp stone, wet grass, dark sky, a crumbling, dry clay
Each hoof that clangs quite wretched through the bricklined undercroft
Was never half as soft as those who thought I'd lost the play
Everything hath two beginnings
The middle's too soon for the end
The centre is where enemies meet
and press against each other to gain the greater measure
Of foreign pleasure
| Contributors: | Stacy, Roland, KD, Linda, P, jp, lucretia, TG. |
| Poem finished: | 14th June 1997. |