Opportunity is like snow
on the face of the desert, the sealing
wax that never cools, its indecision
scattering feelings an agreement with
               the Self never soothes, missing it

               forever charges to full spark
the filament of that one moment one
can never change, illuminating its
memory with elucidations that
               trespass the dark boundaries of

               consciousness and its near neighbour
conscience, too late to end their long dispute
a contested territory of mind
blanketed in war, violence that proves
               wounds are nothing but open mouths

               saying grave things without tombstones
to name the many-splintered sorrows of
their occupants, those hierophants whose bones
expose what winter coats the world-weary
               in, scars of flesh too cold to skin

               the wishing to experience
it again keeping mortal hands from keys
to reading the cards dealt, what keeps death from
bringing its tearing apart, secrets from
               being broken open when one

               seeks meaning in a moment gone
before its seizing could be realized
the harrowing’s great reaping once delayed
waits only so many days until it
               arrives and ends all suffering.