Between yes and no
there are some things,
my mother taught
in many ways.
Between the lines
(she sang) is space
between the colours
black and white.
those other colours
there.
Nothing
(she tucked and kissed)
is easily diminished,
there is always more,
elsewhere.
The world (my darling
boy) has each name
outnumbered, each
Doing Word outdone.
It coarsens
the finest print.
It twists and hides
(like you, Menance)
refusing
to be dressed!
And always this beating of the mask
more thinly: each worry-line
and glistening tear-track.
I am seeking only a Quest, you say?
Don't interrupt, or raise your eyebrows
like inverted commas.
As for the claim that Perfection
recedes infiniteimally
with each incremental step closer:
enough. I have never believed in alegbra,
its untouchable verbs. I have seen tricks
on blackboards, yet gone home knowing
that even parallel lines touch
eventually, for theirs is the kingdom
of the real, free from definition,
and one day this mask
will be indistinguishable
from the face beneath,
or no longer a mask
but the face itself, for which
there can be no further us,
and I will find myself
suddenly nearing shore,
among birds.