My war will never be won.
At death, maybe. Or maybe,
victory is death.
Or death victory, maybe.
But still to sit idly and drink
coffee or tea or maybe wine.
But not too much.

The stirrings of the café only sharpen my focus
on the same story,
over and over.
Never-ending, or maybe,

But still,
my mind wanders.
From face to face and idea to idea, until,
a new secret in the Book I’ve opened one hundred times before.
How did I miss this until now?
Was I too hasty? Looking always
at this moment like a seed for the next?
And surely the tree is larger than its idea,
but maybe, it’s the same.

It was a cold day, crisp and clean.
I don’t like the new art. Too modern,
or maybe, not quite modern enough.

The barista is curious; but not
for his tired dreadlocks; the way he slithers gracefully between tightly rowed tables.
His voice is deep and slow and intentional.
Maybe he already knows,
or maybe, he never forgot?

I think I knew once, at least,
I remember thinking I once knew,
but maybe I did not, maybe not?
I’ve forgotten, but still, and probably will not.

But then, to know. And now, we do.
To forget!
At death, maybe.