She Will Meet You

If you keep going
and going
and going
and going
to meet the poem
One day she will come to meet you.

You are spent, but she, still fresh,
serenely smiling in crepuscular welcome

of your foolish faith of effort,
the wisdom of your yearning,

Pausing, blinking,
No doubt you’re

unsure of how to mold
and mete the moment
Now it’s here

Where’s the breath?
In the poem that clamors,
Stampeding.
Where’s the beat?
In the poem that lingers, teasing,

to a conclusion of uncertainty,
to a suspension not resolving.