Coming at an end, the lovers Are exhausted like two swimmers.
Where Did it end? There is no telling.
No love is Like an ocean with the dizzy procession of the waves' boundaries
From which two can emerge exhausted, nor long goodbye Like death.
Coming at an end.
Rather, I would say, like a length Of coiled rope
Which does not disguise in the final twists of its lengths Its endings.
But, you will say, we loved
And some parts of us loved
And the rest of us will remain Two persons.
Yes, Poetry ends like a rope.
Jack Spicer
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