One can only be rebuffed every time

before one begins, now tentatively,

later with real zeal, to anticipate

the formation of a new permanence;

hard, coarse, cool to the touch. How is it fair 

that this enforcement of denial should 

last precisely too long, at last leaving 

one both exasperated and relieved,

and at the same time precisely as long

as the relentless denier dictates? 

“Give what you need, and you shall receive it,” 

and when that fails, give what you need 

until you forget all about yourself,

one of enlightened or a vegetable.

Which choice would be the more regrettable

after enough lost time let one reflect

and recognize that, yes, a choice was made;

to have spent all of sparse free time chasing

an art for which one had no aptitude,

yielding chaff, nothing appreciable, or 

instead to have spent sparse free time chasing

an art for which one was well suited, showed 

real talent, and with it, might have composed  

an oeuvre worthy of approbation,

with more, in retrospect, than sparse free time 

left for the chase? One, having since made one’s 

mindless and enduring choice, might rather

not know, still suspects one or the other.