It's never too early to change your life,
But the fact of making a conscious choice
Is tough to swallow while keeping a straight face,
And you resort to old distractions.

The bridges fail to connect anything
Again, as in days when you relied
Upon them for a sort of livelihood, tried
And true. But they make a pretty picture:

The sun on a glass facade in a field,
A deepish blue. Or with good friends, if you
Have them. Should you have dealt more frankly
With them, as you value their company

Above all else (with the possible
Exception of extreme solitude, as when,
Crossing Staten Island Ferry, you stood
At the forefront in the throng, whistling

Soundlessly, so that only you could hear)?
Something we can get a handle on
Must come of this, or there's no incentive
To continue reading. But what's the point

Of obfuscation in cases of real
Clarity? If it doesn't come easy,
That's because it isn't. But it also
Doesn't play games. When the material

Is knotted, the knots are in the weave. Tough
Luck if you'd have it otherwise. I know
The frame of mind we're all in doesn't make
Allowances, but that only means

It's time to change out of our old habits,
Into something newfangled and chic. Love
Is still here, all the constants intact, but
They are more interesting that we had

Previously imagined. For example:
You are always at the point from which
Some perspective is gained, and the spaces
Between are mere filler, to be reflected

Upon when you've a moment to yourself.
Everyone you see has something to
Offer you, be it a piece of sound advice
Or the smart of a sad countenance.

You are right in thinking "I too am one
Who can overcome this separateness
Among people, one who would acquiesce
To the condition of being alone
Out of an antithetical compulsion
To allow for something luminous
And endearing to come about, profess,
And show us that we've something in common

With one another after all, silly
As it sounds". But to think yourself ready
To go it alone is to think again.
We feign control, but act willy-nilly,
A thing which, in denial, is as deadly
To that without as to the life within.

And so, the antipodes came to be seen
In the same light, as complementary
To one another, not stratified, not
At throats, straddling an impasse, gulf

Or insurmountable chasm, as in days
When the irreconcilable was not
Held in high esteem by those in the know,
Except to say that there were boundaries,

Integral echelons, that all was
Sensible. But what was there for one
To found an orbit on if not the self?
Once the self was ousted, there was stillness

In the spheres: all shuffling ceased, and comets
Fell to chasing their tails. The sun, we thought,
Would make a fine centerpiece, and so it
Did, until new anxieties sent us

Lurching back into ourselves, like rockets
Hurled headlong into a lunar eclipse.
It was truly uncharted territory,
Although we'd been there all along, had made

Our lives in the heart of obscurity,
Putting aside a little at a time,
Huddling together for good company.
Still, to return was unnecessary,

For the opposite shore was indistinct
And fragile like our own, and we found
The same people living in much the same way,
Stubborn, toothless and destitute, but with

An appreciation for the finer things.
It was not hard to find one's niche, to
Fall back on one's old, odd ways, and to fall
In with the right crowd at last, resting on

Imaginary laurels. But the heart
Of a conqueror can never be slaked,
And time came to rally the troops once more
For the final bout with death and the high

Heavens.