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,
eter­nal.

But still,
my mind wan­ders.
From face to face and idea to idea, until,
sud­denly,
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.
Re­mem­ber.

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