This book has been a softly demanding journey.
I might never read those last words,
perhaps depriving myself of the author’s climatic moment
when his greatest inspiration
would render all 400
previous pages merely introductory comment.
I am taken with the idea,
I might know where his story should end,
And have reached that point.
Today my editor,
unpaid and happy to offer comments,
expressed disappointment
“too often I end a piece of poetry or
prose without answering a question
that a reader needs resolved”
Both that unidentified reader and my editor are right.
I apologize.
It is not ego that demands I stop,
perhaps too soon.
I have merely reached a point where words fail.
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