now that I'm up and

I've found my diverse and sundry misgivings
coalesced into one distinct dread:

completion

scares the
out of me

If I can be done with a poem
who is to say that I can't be done with?

and though I still may be abandoned
clutching incomplete couplets to my
at least I won't be alone

no need for
we interrupt this broadcast for breaking news-in-progress
or mystery novels with the endings torn
these omissions ensure
I will always have a familiar
to return to

yet even though I don't have the
to put an end to this
I won't be spiteful

everyone, person and poem
deserves a final

perhaps someone more
than I
would like to have
the last

In Progress

Ten years ago it seemed impossible
   That she should ever grow so calm as this,
    With self-remembrance in her warmest kiss
And dim dried eyes like an exhausted well.
Slow-speaking when she has some fact to tell,
    Silent with long-unbroken silences,
    Centred in self yet not unpleased to please,
Gravely monotonous like a passing bell.
Mindful of drudging daily common things,
    Patient at pastime, patient in her work,
Wearied perhaps but strenuous certainly.
Sometimes I fancy we may one day see
    Her head shoot forth seven stars from where they lurk
And her eyes lightnings and her shoulders wings.

Christina Rossetti 1862, 1896

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