Approaching a penultimate
that’s always more than next to last.
This truth is our emolument:
We never can have all of it
so fast.
We never can have all we want,
or all we sometimes think we need.
Desire is better somewhat gaunt.
We drink not from some final font
through which we’re freed.
I never can have all of you;
you will not render me your whole.
You lend me parts on which to chew.
I give them back; their loss, I rue.
Your soul is not my soul.
You never can have all of God.
You’re only part of Him, it seems.
You’re just a lump of clayey clod.
The other parts spare not the rod
and strike with moral enthymemes.
In fact, we never have it all,
for all is infinitely vast.
It’s why desire seems so small
although a never-ending hall.
The last is never more than next to last.