and, and
_________________________________________________________

One man said his dreams ended when his drinking began.
Some of mine ended at that too, and some began.

In a life of comparison there is always a dream,
however inappropriate, however grand, however out of harmony
with the sense of one, two, three—the ordinary day near

the ordinary harbor, the ordinary sun against the ordinary sea.
And when the lives went out to sea no one went with them,

until one got sick with the comparison, and resentment entered,
     anger
entered, despair entered. They entered with a silence, like a face
conquering a dream, becoming another face, becoming a thunder

from a past inhabited by a desert, a sky, a rock.
So when one man said his dreams ended when his drinking began

I took exception. I regret having to say again I do not know.
I do not know exactly at which moment anything begins or ends,
I do not know exactly when my life waned. It waned,

that is enough. My life compared like an endless clock,
it is exhausting to walk years and years not being yourself,

knowing that you are not yourself but walking again and again.
The faces did not matter, a face could have asked me to stop
and I could not stop. Life was and, and.

One of my friends was called The Windmill. I was The Spartan.
We were both exhausted.