by Richard Luftig

I have put off
reading our
poems strung
together
like incantations,
pictographs,
magic on paper
that I only
now begin
to understand.

I wish I could
postpone the ending,
for pages to go missing
like torn-up lovers,
or have them
jumbled in no order
that I can predict:
a last chapter
concluding it all
for the good.