Bill Hunt Loading

You’ve not long

Death awaits at journey’s end
A silent half-thought sentence

Waylaid, suspended in mid-air
Floating neither up nor down, just there

With care I would attend the words wrought for that closing phrase
So many drafts, how densely filled, that final august page

How tedious, how tiresome, the bleak unmetered text
In vain anticipation of some good that must come next

Attend you now the space before that final deathly dot
It’s there for you to fill with love, for that is all you’ve got.

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Bill Hunt